One poor mother demanded medicine for a sick baby, and Larry’s heart was sore at the misery he met with. In one case he gave a half-starving woman money enough for a week’s food at least, and so, though he had no right to assume the character he did, there was no harm in it, and eventually good came of it.
But he was not meeting the success for which he hoped. Inquiry after inquiry he made, but he did not find a trace of the stolen boy. He got to the top floor. Some of the apartments were vacant; the tenants had been dispossessed, Larry was told. There was but one set of rooms left at which to inquire, and these were on the rear of the house.
“This is my last chance!” thought Larry. “But still there are other tenements, and other places where there are many chimneys. I’m not giving up yet.”
He knocked. The door was opened by a woman, who eyed him suspiciously.
“I am inspecting for sick children,” said Larry, the phrase he had been using. “Have you any?”
“I have no children. There are none here. Go away!”
“Have there been any?” asked Larry in desperation, slipping his foot in the crack of the door, so that it could not be closed. “I’m looking for an Italian boy, about ten or twelve years old. Have you seen one—in company with some men?”
The woman started. She looked more closely at Larry.
“Maybe you was a detective?” she asked quickly.
“Well, sort of, if you like to call me that,” admitted the young reporter, his heart beating suddenly with new hope. “Why?”