Penny ran into the house after the garments and also took a flashlight from her father’s bureau drawer. When she hurried outdoors again her father had backed his own car from the garage and was waiting.
At the twenty-third street dock, Harry Griffith, owner of the boat house, answered their questions frankly. Yes, he told them, Jerry Livingston had rented a motor boat early that morning but had not returned it.
“I been worryin’ about that young feller,” he admitted, and then with a quick change of tone: “Say, you’re not Mr. Parker, are you?”
“Yes, that’s my name.”
“Then I got a letter here for you. I reckon maybe it explains what became of the young feller.”
The boatman took a greasy envelope from his trousers pocket and gave it to the editor.
“Where did you get this, Mr. Griffith?”
“A boy in a rowboat brought it up the river about two hours ago. He said the young feller gave him a dollar to deliver it to a Mr. Parker. But the kid was mixed up on the address, so I just held it here.”
“Dad, it must be from Jerry,” said Penny eagerly.
As her father opened the envelope, she held the flashlight close. In an almost illegible scrawl Jerry had written: