Larry Dexter and the Stolen Boy; or, A Young Reporter on the Lakes

by Howard Roger Garis

But, in spite of his rather boastful words, the young reporter knew that he had the hardest part of his task still before him.

“Now, let’s see, where had I best begin?” mused Larry, as he went ashore. “First of all, to establish headquarters. I’ll go to a good hotel and put up there. Then to look for the little room with a view of only chimneys. Poor little chap! What a dreary time it must be for him. And why in the world haven’t those kidnappers done something before this? Why haven’t they made a demand for money—for a ransom? What is their object in keeping so silent?”

And in spite of himself, Larry felt a sense of fear and danger that he would not even give a place to in his thoughts.

“No, it can’t be!” he exclaimed. “Lorenzo is alive, and I’ll get him!”

From then on there were busy days for Larry Dexter. He at once began a tour of the city, looking for tall chimneys, and he found them plentiful. But he used a sort of process of elimination. That is, he would locate the chimneys, and then, by making a careful observation of the neighborhood, he would learn whether or not there were boarding houses, or furnished rooms for people in moderate circumstances, there. In many cases there were not, and that meant that Lorenzo, in all probability, was not there.

“For it’s certain that the kidnappers aren’t in any fancy hotel,” decided Larry. “They’re in the tenement district, most likely, and that’s why the poor boy doesn’t get much to eat. Those fellows are keeping under cover, and the best place for them is in one of the human beehives.”

Several days passed—they lengthened into a week—and Larry was as far from success as at first. Madame Androletti had become so impatient at the lack of good news that she came on to Detroit to stay, and Larry reported to her every day. In spite of his lack of progress the singer did not lose confidence in him, and, even when he suggested it, she would not call in the police or private detectives.

“For why should I?” she asked. “Up to now they have not been anywhere nearly as successful as you, Larry, and should I trust them now? No! I will leave it to you. But, oh, Larry, find him soon for me—soon!” and tears filled her eyes.

Into one factory district after another Larry carried his search. Tenement after tenement he visited, taking in turn those where particular nationalities herded together.

“If they were Italians who have the boy they might go in with their own kind, or they might pick out a place where none of their countrymen were,” reasoned Larry. “It’s hard to know just what to think. I’ve just got to keep on searching.”