CHAPTER XVII

ON THE LAKES

Larry was not long in making his arrangements for the trip West. Hurrying home with a copy of the late edition of the _Leader_, containing his story of the stolen boy’s letter, the young reporter began packing his clothes in a suit-case.

“Where to now, Larry?” asked his mother. “Oh, it does seem that you haven’t any home life at all, lately. What with the bank mystery, and now this stolen-boy case, I hardly see you at all.”

“And he doesn’t play with me, either!” added little James.

“Well, I think this is the beginning of the end,” remarked Larry, as he went on with his packing. “I think I’ll bring back the stolen boy with me, mother.”

“Do you really mean it, Larry?”

“Well, I think I’m on the best clew I’ve struck yet,” he answered, as he showed his mother the paper containing the story of the letter. “It looks very promising.”

“Oh, I hope it proves so!” Mrs. Dexter exclaimed. “I can feel for his poor mother. The anxiety must be terrible. Oh, Larry, go, and bring him back. I’ll never say a word, no matter how long you stay away, if you can only find that boy. Only come home as soon as you do find him.”

“As fast as steam and electricity can bring us!” he cried cheerfully. “But there, I mustn’t be too hopeful, for, after all, I may fall down on this, as I did in the moving-picture play, though I don’t consider that was altogether my fault.”

“Do you really think the letter was written by the boy?” asked Larry’s sister Lucy.

“Oh, yes, there’s no doubt of that. His mother knows Lorenzo’s handwriting. It was mere luck that some one found his letter, after he threw it out of the window, and mailed it. It might, just as easily, have lain in the street unnoticed. Or, worse still, those who are holding him a prisoner might have found it, and then they would have taken extra precautions, so that he never could have sent word of where he is.”

“Hadn’t you better hurry more, Larry?” suggested his mother. “I should think you’d fairly want to fly out there, before those men move on with the poor boy again.”

“I do wish they had an airship service out to the lakes, but, as matters stand, I don’t believe there is need of any special rush.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I think that those fellows have picked out a place where they are going to stay for some time with the boy. Evidently they’ve been on the move with him, up to now, or else they’ve held him captive in some lonely place where he couldn’t get a chance to send his mother any word. For he’s a smart boy, and in the time he’s been kept away he would have found opportunity to do something to give us a clew, except it was utterly impossible.

“So that’s why I think they’re likely to keep him in Detroit for some time, and though I’m not going to waste many hours, I’m not going to go off on a rush. I think I’ll go by boat, instead of train, even though it’s slower. I like the water, and it will give me a chance to see something of the great lakes.”

“Why do you think they picked out Detroit?” asked Mrs. Dexter.

“Well, it’s hard to say,” answered Larry. “Perhaps they wanted to be in a position to escape by land or water if they found the police on their trail. Then, too, they may have gone from New York to Buffalo, and have taken a boat there for Detroit. Any way so as to break the trail. But I think I’m on it just the same,” and the young reporter concluded his packing with more hope in his heart than he had had in some time.

Larry had made a copy of the boy’s letter, and this he now looked at again, before bidding his family good-by for what might be a long time.

“Big chimneys,” mused Larry. “He says he can see big chimneys from his window, and not much else. I’ve got to look for chimneys, first of all.”

With plenty of expense money in his pocket, and arrangements made so that he could get more in Detroit, Larry started off on his trip along the Great Lakes. He was to go by train to Buffalo, and, as it was nearly night when he got started, he took a sleeper.

Little of interest occurred on the trip West. The train was on time, and in due course Larry found himself on one of the largest of the steamers on Lake Erie.

The weather was fine, and Larry really began to enjoy himself, as he sat on deck. Though he was filled with anxiety over the plight of the stolen boy, and though he realized that much depended on himself in rescuing the lad, still the young reporter would not allow his thoughts to become gloomy.

“I’ll just think of this as a sort of vacation,” he said. “I can’t really do anything until I get to Detroit, and maybe I’ll be a long while there before I can get on the right track. So I’ll take it easy while I can.”

Certainly Larry was entitled to it, for he had worked hard on the case up to now, and there was much of danger and hard work ahead of him still. Then, too, he had not had much of a respite from the Wall Street bank mystery, which was one of the most baffling cases the young reporter had ever been called on to solve.

So it is no wonder that he began to take a little enjoyment out of the lake trip. It was simply a case of where he could do nothing, for there was nothing to do.

“Just the same, I’d like to know whether they brought the boy over this route?” Larry mused, as he looked at the waters of the lake, sparkling in the sun.

“Just think of it, they may have even come on this same steamer. That’s something I hadn’t thought of. I must look that up. The purser ought to know. I’ll have a talk with him.”

Larry laughed to himself. It was not five minutes ago that he had made a sort of vow that he would not worry or do any work until he got to Detroit, and here he was making labor for himself.

But he knew better than to leave the slightest thread loose, and when, by so simple a means as asking questions, he could learn whether or not the kidnappers had been on this steamer, he decided to do it.

The purser, however, could give him no information. He was obliging enough about it when Larry asked him, and went over his records from the date when Lorenzo was stolen down to the last trip. But, though innumerable boys appeared on the passenger list, none bore a description tallying with that of Madame Androletti’s son. Nor could the purser, who had not missed a trip on the boat in that time, recall any suspicious persons taking a boy away.

“Well, I’ve settled that much, anyhow,” thought Larry, as he turned in for the night. “Now to wait until I get to Detroit, and then--the tall chimneys. What a queer clew to locate a stolen boy?”

Larry slept peacefully, in spite of his busy brain that would not stop thinking of the case on which he was engaged. He awoke, after a trip along the Detroit River, to find Detroit looming up in the distance.

“Well, I’m ready for you!” he exulted, as he paced the deck. “If you’re there, Lorenzo, I’ll have you out of the hands of those scoundrels if it’s at all possible.”

But, in spite of his rather boastful words, the young reporter knew that he had the hardest part of his task still before him.

“Now, let’s see, where had I best begin?” mused Larry, as he went ashore. “First of all, to establish headquarters. I’ll go to a good hotel and put up there. Then to look for the little room with a view of only chimneys. Poor little chap! What a dreary time it must be for him. And why in the world haven’t those kidnappers done something before this? Why haven’t they made a demand for money--for a ransom? What is their object in keeping so silent?”

And in spite of himself, Larry felt a sense of fear and danger that he would not even give a place to in his thoughts.

“No, it can’t be!” he exclaimed. “Lorenzo is alive, and I’ll get him!”

From then on there were busy days for Larry Dexter. He at once began a tour of the city, looking for tall chimneys, and he found them plentiful. But he used a sort of process of elimination. That is, he would locate the chimneys, and then, by making a careful observation of the neighborhood, he would learn whether or not there were boarding houses, or furnished rooms for people in moderate circumstances, there. In many cases there were not, and that meant that Lorenzo, in all probability, was not there.

“For it’s certain that the kidnappers aren’t in any fancy hotel,” decided Larry. “They’re in the tenement district, most likely, and that’s why the poor boy doesn’t get much to eat. Those fellows are keeping under cover, and the best place for them is in one of the human beehives.”

Several days passed--they lengthened into a week--and Larry was as far from success as at first. Madame Androletti had become so impatient at the lack of good news that she came on to Detroit to stay, and Larry reported to her every day. In spite of his lack of progress the singer did not lose confidence in him, and, even when he suggested it, she would not call in the police or private detectives.

“For why should I?” she asked. “Up to now they have not been anywhere nearly as successful as you, Larry, and should I trust them now? No! I will leave it to you. But, oh, Larry, find him soon for me--soon!” and tears filled her eyes.

Into one factory district after another Larry carried his search. Tenement after tenement he visited, taking in turn those where particular nationalities herded together.

“If they were Italians who have the boy they might go in with their own kind, or they might pick out a place where none of their countrymen were,” reasoned Larry. “It’s hard to know just what to think. I’ve just got to keep on searching.”

Several times he hired a small motorboat and went for a cruise, for he loved the water. Nor were these excursions without an object, for he made inquiries along the water front, and of all sorts of lake characters, as to whether they had seen anything of a suspicious looking man or men with a frightened Italian boy. But none had.

“Well, I’m not making much progress,” thought Larry one evening, after a day of hard work and fruitless inquiry. “But better luck to-morrow.” And, strangely enough, his luck did turn.