“And so they took my boy!” cried the singer. “They have stolen him from me! But with your help, good Señor Dexter, you who solved the million-dollar bank mystery, we will get him back, will we not?”
“We will!” cried Larry enthusiastically, though he knew that there was plenty of hard work ahead of him, and but a slim chance that he would be successful.
“I’ll do all I can,” he said, “and so will every one on the Leader. You’ll have all the help the newspaper can give.”
“Oh, how can I reward you?” she cried. “My fortune——”
“All the reward I ask is to have the story alone—exclusively!” cried Larry. “I want a ‘scoop’.”
“Oh, you reporters! Such funny words! First, you want a cabbage is it——?” and she looked at Larry, and smiled.
“No, a ‘beat,’” he corrected.
“Oh, yes. And then you demand what you call a—shovel——”
“No, a ‘scoop.’ I guess it means shoveling all the other fellows out of the way, though,” explained the young reporter. “But if I get either a ‘beat,’ or a ‘scoop,’ it’s all the same. Now I’m off to the office, to write this story, and then I’ll come back and make some plans. I want to know more about this Parloti. If any reporters from other papers come to see you, please——”
He was interrupted by the ringing of the private telephone in the singer’s room. She answered it, repeating some of the message that came to her.