“All the Indians and cowboys in Detroit are in the theaters, or moving-picture plays,” said Larry, with a laugh. “As for the buffaloes, there aren’t any. But let me read the letter.”
Quickly he took it from the envelope. It was but a single sheet of paper, evidently torn from some parcel, for it was creased and worn. It began:
“Dear Andyetti:”
“That’s his pet name for me,” said the fond mother. “It’s a sort of mannish name, and when—when his dear father died, I had to be both parents to him. That’s how we made up the name.”
“I see,” spoke Larry softly.
Then he went on with the letter.
“Oh, how I miss you. A bad man took me away. We came far in the train. He got me in the theater. I tried many times to write to you, but they stopped me. Now I am in a big city, in a little room. It is not in a nice place. From my window I can see big chimneys, and not much else. I do not like the things they give me to eat. They are bad to me. Oh, when will you come for me? I am writing this with a little bit of pencil I have saved for a long time. I am going to throw it out of the window, and I hope some good person will pick it up and mail it to you.
“I have no money, not even a postage stamp. I will make an envelope of some of this wrapping paper, and stick it together with paste made from some bread crumbs.
“Oh, Andyetti, how I want you! Come and get me!”
“Your Lorenzo.”
Larry’s eyes were moist as he finished reading the childish letter. And yet it was not so childish, either. It was as full of grief as if a man had penciled it, for the boy was wise beyond his years, having had a good education, and being naturally bright.
“Well, what do you think?” cried Madame Androletti, as Larry finished reading the letter.
“I think it is from your boy,” he said slowly, “and that he is held captive in Detroit.”