The manager, who was Señor Maurice Cotta, paused.
“Did you find him?” asked Larry.
“His mother did,” was the answer of Señor Cotta. “He was in her dressing-room, I believe. She is close at hand. Hark, I think I can hear her talking to him now.”
He held up a fat, pudgy hand. Larry listened. Plainly enough he could hear a woman’s voice murmuring:
“My son! My boy! My little Lorenzo!” Then followed something in Italian.
“So, you see, there is no story for you, Señor Leader—I beg your pardon—Dexter,” spoke the manager, with a smile. “I am sorry, but you will have only to write about our concert.”
“And about Madame Androletti fainting,” added Larry, feeling rather disappointed, as all true newspaper men do at a story not “panning out.” It is not through heartlessness that they are thus regretful, but because it is their profession to hunt out news.
“Oh, yes, her indisposition,” murmured Señor Cotta.
“It was plucky of her to keep on,” said Larry. “I’ll have a good story of it.”
“Ah, thank you.”