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joined them intheir talk, but it was some days before Laura found
the chance for which she was looking so anxiously.
One morning the old gentleman arrived just after the whole of the
Van Kuren family, excepting Laura, had gone out and it was she
therefore who received him in the private parlor. Mr. Dexter seated
himself in an easy chair by the fire and entered into conversation
with the young girl regarding her lessons, her friends in America and
the amusement which she found in Paris. This was the chance she
had been waiting for, and with an air of deep mystery she said.
“Mr. Dexter there was a very curious thing that happened some
time ago and if I tell you I want you to promise me not to say
anything about it to anybody not even to papa, and particularly not
to Harry.” In her eagerness she forgot the agreement she had made
with Bruce, an agreement which had more than once prevented him
from speaking of the subject to friends and others who might have
aided him in his search.
“Certainly my dear, I will make that promise,” replied Mr. Dexter,
with a beneficent smile, “now tell me what this mysterious thing is. I
assure you I am very anxious to know.”
Then Laura told him the story with which my readers have been
already made familiar—she described to him their acquaintance with
Bruce and repeated what he had told her in regard to the old house
and his instant recognition of it. As she proceeded, the old
gentleman’s interest in her story grew stronger and stronger, and
when she ended he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with a
hand that was by no means steady and exclaimed “What you tell me
is very strange indeed! I remember the young man very well. He
came up to my house one day to get some magazines and papers that
I had there; and so he found Harry that very day did he? Well my
dear, I scarcely know what to think of it, for strangely enough his
story fits in with certain other things that I have learned within a
year and makes it more than possible that—but after all what is the
use of allowing such thoughts to enter my head?” and breaking off
abruptly he rose from his chair pacing slowly up and down the floor
talking indistinctly to himself as he did so.
And as he walked, Laura, who had become thoroughly excited over
the mystery which she found as romantic and interesting as any she
had ever found in a novel, watched him intently, carefully noting the
23.
effect that herwords had had on him and wondering what the
meaning of the whole matter was.
“Do you happen to know the address of this young man?” inquired
Mr. Dexter suddenly stopping in his walk.
“Mr. Dexter * * * held out his
hand for the address.”—Page
257.
“Yes,” said Laura, “I’ll run and get it for you, but you must never
tell anybody that I did because it would make awful trouble for me.”
When she returned she found her father, her aunt and Harry in the
room and for a moment she was at a loss what to do, but Mr. Dexter,
who was anxiously looking for her, held out his hand for the address
and said, as Laura placed the scrap of paper in it, “Remember, this is
our secret, my little girl, and Harry is not to know anything about it.”
The way in which he said this and the smile with which his words
were accompanied stimulated Harry’s curiosity and at the same time
served to put the elders off the scent. Then the conversation was
turned into other channels and in five minutes the incident had
passed out of the minds of everyone but the two concerned in it.
That afternoon Laura spread her writing materials on the parlor
table and sat down to write her regular weekly letter to her dear
friend in America, Kitty Harriott. She had just written “Dear Kitty,”
when a thought came into her mind that caused her to drop her pen
24.
and sit fora moment in deep meditation. Then with cheeks flushed
with excitement, she continued as follows:
“I hope you are well and enjoying yourself and that all the other girls are well
too. We are having a splendid time here but we have to study as hard as we did at
home. There is something that I want you to do for me and you must never tell any
one that I mentioned it to you for it is something very mysterious and important.
You know about Bruce Decker, the young fireman who was in the hospital. I have
often talked to you about him. Well, Papa has made me promise not to write to him
and I dare not disobey him, but I did not promise that you would not write to him,
and something has happened which he ought to know. I want you to write him a
letter and send it to the address on the scrap of paper enclosed. Tell him that Mr.
Dexter and Papa are great friends now and he comes to see us every day. This
morning I was alone when he called and he sat down and we had a long talk. I told
him what Bruce told me about the Dexter house (just write it that way and he will
know what I mean), and he was very much interested in what I said and got up and
walked up and down the room talking to himself but I could not hear a word he
said. Then he asked me for Bruce’s address and I copied it out and gave it to him
right before Papa and Aunt Sarah and Harry who had all come into the room, and
Harry’s wild to know what was on the paper I gave him. Now Kitty you must do
exactly what I tell you. Bruce will know who you are because he has heard me talk
about you and I’m sure he’s just dying to know you. But remember it is important
that he should get this message right away and nobody must know anything about
it. If he makes any answer to your note write to me at once. No more at present,
from
Your loving friend
Laura Van Kuren.”
25.
N
Chapter XXVIII.
ow theinterest which old Mr. Dexter had betrayed while
listening to Laura’s story was in reality as nothing compared
with that which he felt, and when he reached his home that
afternoon he seated himself by the fire and fell into a condition of
deep thought.
Mr. Van Kuren who called on him that evening found him in his
parlor busy with a number of old letters, papers and photographs
which were spread out on the table before him.
“You see,” he said as he rose to greet his guest, “that even here in
Paris, with enough to render most men contented, my thoughts go
back to my old friends and home in America. I don’t know whether I
shall ever return or not; but of late I have been thinking seriously of
running over to New York for a week or two to settle a little matter of
business that has been worrying me for a short time past.”
Mr. Dexter did not explain that the “short time past” meant only
about eight hours nor did he, of course, say what the matter was that
troubled him but his guest divined that it might be some family affair
and asked him if that were not the case.
“Well yes,” rejoined Mr. Dexter, “it is a family matter, and one that
I cannot settle very well by mail, though I might write my nephew
and ask him to attend to it for me.”
“Your nephew?” exclaimed Mr. Van Kuren, “why I was not aware
that you were even on speaking terms with him, and for my part I
would not blame you if you never have anything more to say to him.”
The older man looked up at his visitor, and said very gently and
with the same pleasant smile that always came into his face when he
spoke to either Harry or Laura, “My dear Horace, when you reach my
age you will be anxious to settle up all your earthly quarrels so that
when the time comes for you to leave this world you may do so with a
feeling that you leave no enemies behind.”
26.
“But do youmean to tell me,” demanded Mr. Van Kuren, “that you
have become a friend of that good-for-nothing nephew of yours
again? I can’t understand it after the way in which he treated you ten
years ago.”
“You must remember, Horace, that Sam is the only blood relation I
have left in this world. He came to see me a few months before I left
America, and I found him so regretful for the past, and so much
changed for the better that I have now fully as much confidence in
him as I ever had in my own son.”
Mr. Van Kuren shrugged his shoulders, and after a moment’s
hesitation, replied, “There’s nothing in the world that would induce
me to place any confidence whatever in Sam Dexter, even if he is
your only blood relation. It is entirely through him that the
misunderstanding occurred which separated us for years, and I have
heard of him in New York of late as connected with some very
dubious enterprises.”
“But my dear Horace,” continued the old gentleman, “you must
not believe everything that you hear. I have no doubt that my
nephew’s career has not been altogether what it should have been;
but that he is thoroughly contrite now I have no reason to doubt.
When he first came to see me I supposed, of course, that he was in
want of money again, and was therefore inclined to be a little
suspicious, but when he not only assured me, but proved to me, that
he had a handsome sum laid by out of his savings for a future day,
that he wanted nothing of me, and was only anxious to heal up old
breaches while I was still alive, then I was forced to admit that he
was, indeed, a different man from the one whom I had known
formerly.”
“Do you mean to say that he never tried to beg or borrow anything
from you, that is to say, since this last reconciliation?” demanded Mr.
Van Kuren, incredulously.
“I certainly do mean to say exactly that,” replied the other
emphatically. “He is occupying the old house at present but that is
because I asked him to do so. It is not safe to leave one’s home in the
hands of servants or caretakers.”
Mr. Van Kuren shrugged his shoulders again and remarked, in a
tone that showed he had no faith in the repentance or sincerity of
Mr. Dexter’s nephew: “Well, just mark my words, that man will still
manage to injure you in some way. He is not to be trusted.”
27.
For a fewmoments the old gentleman sat quietly looking into the
fire, then he lifted his eyes and said, “I should be sorry to have as bad
an opinion of Sam as you have, but it may be that you are nearer
right in your estimate of him than I am. Nevertheless it’s an old
man’s fancy, and one that should be, for that reason, pardoned, to
feel that after he is gone he will be succeeded at his home and in his
estate by one of his own blood rather than by a stranger.”
“And so,” remarked Mr. Van Kuren dryly, “you have arranged to
make Sam your heir, have you?”
“Yes that is my present intention. As my will stands now, all my
property goes to my son and as he is dead, Sam as the next of kin
would inherit it anyway. Therefore I hardly think it necessary to
write a new one, but will destroy the old one, which will throw the
property into his hands.”
“And does he know this?” asked Mr. Van Kuren.
“I haven’t told him so in so many words, but I am sure he must
know what my intentions are. However he has never broached the
topic to me and I am bound to say that he seems to be thoroughly
disinterested in his regard for me.”
“In that case,” observed Mr. Van Kuren, watching his friend’s face
carefully as he spoke, “you had better write to him and ask him to
arrange this little family matter that troubles you. At any rate it will
save you the trouble of making a trip across the water. A journey at
your time of life and at this season of the year might be regarded as
almost unsafe.”
Mr. Dexter made no reply to this remark, and there was silence in
the room for fully a minute. Then he shook his head slowly, and said:
“No, I don’t exactly like to ask Sam to help me in this affair, and
perhaps, after all it would be better for me to write than to make the
journey myself.”
“My dear Mr. Dexter,” said Mr. Van Kuren, rising from his seat
and placing his hand on his old friends arm, “the mere fact that you
do not write to him in this matter is a proof that you do not fully trust
him; but don’t take the trip yourself. Write a letter; this is no season
for a man of your age to travel.”
Soon after this the visitor took his leave, and the old gentleman sat
down at his library table and addressed a polite and formal note to
Bruce Decker, telling him what he had learned from a mutual friend,
and asking him to send him full information concerning himself and
28.
his family, addingthat he very well remembered meeting him before,
and hoped that he was making progress in the calling which he had
chosen. Having sealed and addressed this letter he sat for some time
lost in reflection. Then taking up his pen again, he wrote another
letter to the man to whom Mr. Van Kuren had referred as “Sam.”
Both these letters reached New York on the same day, and were
the cause of the strange meeting of the two boys, which has been
described in another chapter. But in the letter to his kinsman, Sam,
the old gentleman did not reveal the address which Laura had given
him.
29.
W
Chapter XXIX.
hen Skinnythe Swiper, standing in the little country burying-
ground, looked upon the time-stained marble slab, and
deciphered the inscription upon it, he opened his eyes in wonder,
and for the second time within five minutes, uttered the exclamation
which he kept on hand for such emergencies as demanded something
more vigorous and expressive than commonplace English.
“Hully gee!” was all that this little New York street boy had to say;
but coming from him it possessed a deeper significance than is
conveyed by the cold type which spells the words.
First he looked at the grave-stone, and then he looked at Bruce
Decker, and finally he asked: “Wuz dat your mother?”
“Yes,” replied Bruce, simply.
Skinny said nothing but he thought a great deal; and while he was
thinking he scratched his head and looked down at the half
obliterated mound of earth that marked the grave of Mrs. Decker.
From the very first he had suspected that there was some connection
between the gallant young fire laddie, who had saved his life and
carried him from the burning building, and the scarred and bearded
man who had sent him to this remote corner of the world. He had
not forgotten that he had been solemnly charged not to breathe a
word to any human being in regard to his strange errand, and he had
an intuitive feeling that if he violated in any way the trust reposed in
him, his employer would learn of it, and mete out to him a terrible
vengeance, instead of the liberal reward that he had promised.
On the other hand, he saw before him the boy who had done for
him what no one else in the world would have done for a friendless,
ragged child of the streets, and for a moment he hesitated as to which
of these two masters he should choose to serve. To the one he owed a
certain amount of loyalty—a few dollars worth, perhaps—but to the
other he owed his life. He raised his eyes, and encountered the clear,
30.
honest, truthful onesof Bruce, which looked him square in the face,
and he hesitated no longer. Rough contact with the world had taught
him to be suspicious of others, and it was rare enough in his career
that he had encountered any one whom he fully trusted. But there
was that in Bruce’s face which caused him to say to himself: “Dat
man is all right, an’ white,” which is a high compliment for a
newsboy to pay any one.
Having reached the conclusion that Bruce was the best friend he
was likely to have in the world, he took from his pocket the written
instructions which Mr. Korwein had given him, handed the paper to
the new master whom he had elected to serve, and blurted out: “Hay,
boss, ain’t dat de same party?”
To say that Bruce was surprised when he saw his mother’s name
written in an unknown handwriting, and in the possession of his
little hospital friend but feebly describes his condition of mind.
“Come over here with me,” he said, as he led the way to a low stone
wall, somewhat remote from the couples who were walking up and
down the paths, laughing and whispering and talking. Then, seating
himself on a convenient bowlder, he said to Skinny: “How in the
world did you ever get hold of this paper?”
And Skinny in reply told him the whole story of the dark-bearded
man, who had summoned him to his office, and sent him away to the
shore of the great inland lake, simply to get information about Mary
Decker and her son, if son she had. Skinny’s recital occupied nearly a
quarter of an hour, for he stretched it so as to include his adventures
while on the road from New York, and the circumstances which had
led to his becoming what he called a haymaker. Bruce listened
intently to every word the boy uttered, and questioned him narrowly
in regard to Mr. Korwein and his motive in entrusting him with such
a strange commission. Of course Skinny could not account for the
man’s motives, and, indeed, that was something he had not troubled
himself about. It was enough to him that his employer wished to
obtain certain information, and was willing to pay for it. So long as
he could be well paid for his work he did not concern himself about
people’s motives, or ask what would be done with the information
which he supplied. But he did not neglect to mention the fact that in
telling as much as he had, he had betrayed his employer, and he
warned his friend to keep strictly to himself all that he had told him.
Bruce readily agreed to this, and then, as the afternoon had already
31.
merged into twilight,they returned to the village, Skinny, passing on
to Mr. Wolcott’s house and Bruce going to that of the friends whom
he was visiting.
The following evening the two boys met again by agreement, and,
with his friends assistance, Skinny composed and sent to his
employer in New York the following letter:
“Mr. Korwein—
Dear Sir:—I went up to the cemetery yesterday, and seen the grave, which had
on it
Sacred to the memory
of
Mary, wife of Frank Decker.
Born Dec. 1st, 1855,
Died Sept. 5th, 1877.
There wasn’t no other graves of any folks named Decker. I am still on the farm.
No more at present. From
Skinny.”
Then he entrusted to Bruce his employer’s address and bade him
good-bye with a parting injunction not to let the man know where he
learned of him; and with this address in his pocket, Bruce climbed
aboard a New York train, said good-bye to a number of admiring
villagers who accompanied him to the depot and was borne away
toward New York, while the street boy walked slowly back to the
Wolcott’s.
32.
Skinny writes aletter to Mr.
Korwein.—Page 270.
As the train rolled swiftly along our young hero sat with his face
pressed against the car window looking out into the quiet night and
thinking over the strange things that happened to him of late. To
begin with, there was this dark bearded man of mystery who, he was
positive, could tell him everything that he wished to know; and who
was this ragged newsboy whom he had befriended—could it be
possible that he was simply a hireling of the other and that he had
been sent to Rocky Point to spy upon him? No, he could not doubt
Skinny’s sincerity, and the feeling had been growing daily within him
that through him the mystery which enveloped his early days and
even his origin would finally be cleared up. One thing he had
determined, and that was that as soon as he reached New York he
would go to Mr. Korwein and boldly ask him—what? That was the
trouble. What should he ask him? He would feel very foolish saying
to that scarred and bearded gentleman: “Please sir will you tell me
who I am and clear up the mystery which enshrouds me?”
His mind was still busy with this problem when the monotonous
motion of the train got the better of his senses and he fell into a deep
sleep.
And just at that moment Skinny the Swiper was lying wide awake
in the comfortable attic room in which Mr. Wolcott had installed him
33.
and was askinghimself what it all meant. Why should Mr. Korwein
have sent him up to Rocky Point, and what had he to do with the
grave of the young fireman’s mother? For the life of him he could not
make it out and then he wondered if Mr. Korwein would ever find
out about his treachery and at the thought of that great man’s wrath
he curled himself up in bed, drew the clothes up over his face and
resolved that he would remain on the farm until he had changed
beyond all recognition. “Anyway,” he said to himself, “dis is a better
place dan de Bowery, because dere’s more to eat an’ a place to sleep.”
And then he too fell asleep and did not waken until the daylight
was streaming through the window over his head and Mrs. Wolcott
calling to him from the foot of the staircase.
The little newsboy found life so pleasant during the autumnal
weather on the shore of Lake Ontario that he began to think seriously
of settling down to an agricultural life. The air was fine and bracing,
the food plentiful and nutritious and the farmer and his wife treated
him with great kindness and did not ask him to do more than a boy’s
amount of work. Skinny’s life had been a hard one, and never in his
recollection had he had as much to eat or enjoyed himself more than
he had since his arrival in the little country place on the shore of the
great lake. Good treatment was something that was more of a novelty
to him than kicks and curses, and when his naturally suspicious
mind grasped the fact that the farmer and his wife were kind to him,
not because they expected to get the better of him in any way, but
because it was their nature to be kind to all living things, and that
they trusted him implicitly and seemed inclined to trust him so long
as he proved worthy, it occurred to him for almost the first time in
his life that there were some people in the world who did not go
about with their hands lifted against such Arabs as himself, and he
determined to repay their confidence with absolute fidelity to their
interests.
He had remained with them nearly a month, and, as has been said
already was beginning to think favorably of an agricultural life when
something occurred which drove all ideas of rural felicity out of his
mind and sent him adrift in the world once more. The something
which served to alter his intentions was a letter which came to him
one morning in the mail. It was from Bruce Decker who wanted to
know how much longer he intended to stay in the country, and
34.
whether he couldbe induced to make a little trip to the city for the
purpose of rendering him (Bruce) an important service.
As the newsboy finished spelling out his friend’s epistle, a gleam of
delight came into his freckled face. Here was another friend who
treated him like a human being and came to him as to some one
whom he could trust to render him a service. Thrusting the letter
into the inside pocket of his jacket he buttoned that faded and rather
rusty garment tightly about him and went at once to his employer.
“Say, boss, I gotter go ter de city ter night,” was the way in which
Skinny announced his intended departure.
“To-night!” exclaimed the farmer, who was accustomed to slow
country ways rather than to Skinny’s metropolitan swiftness of
action, “What’s the matter? Don’t we use you right?”
“Use me right? Why, boss, der aint nobody never used me no
whiter den you an’ de missus, but I’ve gotter go on important bizness
an’ if yer’ll lemme come back when de biz is done, I’ll stop wid yer till
I’m a reg’lar haymaker.”
The farmer saw that the boy was in earnest, and although both he
and his wife were sorry to have him go they made no attempt to
dissuade him, but fitted him out with a new hat and shoes, and then
to the lad’s intense surprise handed him a five-dollar note as a
present.
“Wot’s dis fur?” he demanded, looking with his keen, suspicious
little blue eyes from the greenback in his hand to the farmer’s ruddy
and honest face. He had agreed to work for his keep and never before
in his experience had any one of his numerous employers paid him a
nickel more than he was obliged to.
“You’ve earned it, my boy,” said the farmer heartily, “and if you
want to come back again you’ll find a home for you here the same as
before. You’ve saved me hiring an extra man since you have been
here and next summer if you choose to pitch in and work the same as
you have this fall, I’ll do better by you than this.”
Skinny was a boy of but few words, but sometimes he did a good
deal of quiet thinking. He said but little in farewell to his friends, but
as he was passing through the gate he turned for a last look at the
house which had given him shelter and at the farmer and his wife
who were still standing in the doorway and who had treated him with
so much kindness.
35.
The night trainbore him swiftly to New York and by nine o’clock
the next morning he was standing in front of the superintendent of
the Newsboys’ Lodging House, in negotiation for what he described
as “first-class commerdations widder best grub in der place.”
Having made arrangements for food and lodging, the boy started
uptown with the intention of seeing Bruce at the truck quarters, but
he had not gone many blocks before he felt a strong hand on his
shoulder and heard a stern voice behind him saying: “And so you’ve
turned up again, you young rascal! Now, let’s hear what you have to
say for yourself!”
The newsboy knew the voice at once. There was no need for him to
turn his head. He felt that the hand of fate, in the person of the tall,
black-bearded man, had overtaken him. But it was not the first time
that the hand of vengeance or justice had fallen upon him, and no
one knew better than Skinny that such a grasp is not always a sure
one. Without even turning his head or uttering a single sound the
boy simply slid out of his jacket, twisted himself free and darted
around the nearest corner, leaving his captor standing on the
sidewalk with the ragged jacket in his hand and on his face a look of
rage that it was well for Skinny’s peace of mind that he did not see.
“I’ll catch him yet, the young vagabond, and find out what he’s
been doing all this time!” muttered the tall man between his teeth as
he looked down at the shabby garment which remained in his hand
as evidence of the brief captivity and sudden, eel-like escape of
Skinny the Swiper. He was about to throw the jacket in the gutter, for
it would look odd to be seen carrying it through the crowded streets,
when his eye fell upon the corner of an envelope protruding from an
inside pocket, and thinking that it might contain a clue to the boy’s
haunts in the city, he took it out and examined it. It was simply a
letter written two days before, but it was the signature of Bruce
Decker which arrested the attention of the man who read it and
brought a sudden gleam into his eyes.
36.
W
Chapter XXX.
hen Brucereturned to New York after his short vacation in the
country, he received such a hearty welcome from every
member of the company, that he realized the fact that it is a good
thing for one to go away now and then if only to indicate the value of
one’s services.
He had not only enjoyed himself during his absence and gained
new health and strength from the clear lake air but he had also
proved to the chief and his subordinates that he was a decidedly
useful boy. The many little duties which he performed about the
quarters had been done so quietly and unostentatiously as well as
effectively that it was not until he was out of the city that the others
realized how much trouble he saved them. As it was, the men had to
burden their minds with a number of small details which had
previously been left entirely in Bruce’s hands, and every time that
one of them was called upon to feed the horses or perform some
small duty for the chief he thought of Bruce and wondered how much
longer that boy was going to stay away.
On his return he found awaiting him a letter bearing no signature
and written in an unformed, girlish hand telling him what he already
knew about the interest which Mr. Dexter had felt in him, and
although there was nothing in the note to indicate its origin, Bruce
knew that it must have been inspired by Laura herself. And a very
delightful thing it was to believe that this young girl had taken so
much trouble on his account as to ask somebody in America to give
him this information. But why did she not write to him herself? That
is what puzzled him, for of course he knew nothing about Mr. Van
Kuren’s reason for breaking off the intimacy.
He had scarcely recovered from the glow of satisfaction which
suffused him, as he read his anonymous letter, and thought of the
young girl to whose kindly interest he owed it, when Chief Trask
37.
approached him andinformed him that he was to sleep in the
quarters with the men in future, in order to be on hand in case of a
night alarm.
“You see, my boy, you’re growing older every day now, and I want
you to learn this business through and through, so as to be ready to
take a man’s place when the time comes.”
And, in accordance with the Chiefs orders, which he was only too
glad to obey, Bruce established himself in the dormitory above the
truck quarters, and as he placed his head on the pillow that night,
and saw that his turnout was lying on the floor beside him, he
realized that, although his name was not on the pay-roll of the
department, he was really a fireman at last, and would be expected to
respond to an alarm as readily as any of the men in the company.
The next morning as soon he had finished feeding the horses, and
attended to the other small duties required of him, he took his
particular friend, Charley Weyman, aside and told him of his
experiences in the little graveyard at Rocky Point. He told him how
Skinny had been sent there by the man whom the newsboy called
“Scar-faced Charley,” and who was, he was positive, none other than
the mysterious stranger that Charley Weyman himself had first told
him about.
At the mention of this man, Weyman’s face assumed an expression
of intense interest, which deepened as Bruce continued with his
account of how Skinny had been employed to visit the grave in the
little burying ground and ascertain if possible the whereabouts of any
living member of the Decker family.
“And so this ugly-faced chap is taking all this trouble to find out
whether you were ever burned, and if so, whether you are alive or
dead?” exclaimed the fireman. “Well, if it’s worth anything to him to
find out about you, my opinion is that it’s worth just as much to you
to find out why he is so much interested. He was just as much
concerned about your father that’s dead and gone, and he don’t seem
inclined to lose sight of the family. If I were you, I’d lose no time in
finding out what it all means. But let me tell you one thing, that
fellow never brought good luck to anybody. Your father was never
the same man after he had a visit from him, and if you get him
coming around here after you, you may have cause to be sorry for it.”
“You know he’s living in the same house where I went to call on
Mr. Dexter,” said Bruce, “and I’ve been thinking of going up there to
38.
pay him avisit and put it to him fair and square, ‘what do you want
of me, and why are you so interested in the Decker family?’”
For a moment, Weyman remained silent, evidently thinking over
what the boy had said to him. Then he made answer: “Yes I think on
the whole that’s the quickest and surest-way of finding out what you
want to know. There’s nothing like suddenly facing a man of that sort
and putting your question to him before he has time to frame some
answer that might suit his own purpose. Likely as not if he knew you
were coming he’d cook up some reply that would throw you off your
scent but when you come upon him unexpectedly he is apt to tell the
truth even when it’s contrary to his usual practice. Yes I’d go up there
if I were you because if he’s hunting up for the son of Frank Decker
he’s bound to come across him sooner or later. It’s funny he never
came around here to ask the Chief or any of us about him, and it’s
just as strange to me that he didn’t find out at headquarters that you
were drawing a pension. However, I’ve noticed that these very smart
and tricky fellows often over-reach themselves by trying to be too
smart when they might accomplish some thing by being
straightforward and honest.”
Bruce, having slept on the matter, determined to take his friend’s
advice, and although it was more difficult for him to obtain leave of
absence now that he had become a more useful member of the
company than formerly, he soon found an opportunity to make the
long journey to the upper part of the city where Mr. Dexter’s house
was situated. Leaving the elevated railroad, he walked a few blocks
out of his way in order to pass the gate of the great mansion in which
Harry and Laura Van Kuren had lived. The house was closed now,
and it was evident from the unkempt appearance of the lawn and
shrubbery that its master had been away for some time.
For several minutes he stood leaning sadly upon the gate and
thinking of the kind friends whom he had known there, and from
whom he was now separated not only by the trackless waste of ocean,
but also by something he knew not what, but which was nevertheless
an invisible and impassable barrier. It was with a sad heart that he
finally turned his back on the Van Kuren mansion and walked
rapidly along the same highway which he had last trodden in
company with the Van Kuren children and their tutor on that day
when he discovered that Mr. Dexter had departed for Europe.
39.
Once more heentered the broad gate and made his way along the
winding road through the dense shrubbery to the door of the stately
old colonial mansion. A servant answered his ring of the bell and said
in response to his inquiry that Mr. Korwein lived there nominally but
spent most of his time down town, the woman did not know where.
Sometimes she did not see him for a week, and then he would appear
suddenly, remain with them three or four days without quitting the
house, and then disappear to be gone perhaps a week or two longer.
She had no idea where his office was and did not know when Mr.
Dexter would return. Having vouchsafed this information, she closed
the door, and as her young visitor departed, he heard the bolt sharply
snap behind him.
Before leaving the grounds, Bruce walked to the corner of the
house and refreshed his memory with another long look at the old
vine-clad porch which had attracted his attention on the occasion of
his first visit and had suggested to his mind the long search upon
which he was still engaged. There it was just as when he had last seen
it, just as it was when he saw it in those long gone by childish days.
He returned in a rather disconsolate mood to the quarters and told
Weyman the result of his visit.
“Never mind,” said the latter, “you mustn’t expect to learn every
thing all in a hurry. Go up again there the next time you can get away
for an afternoon and you may find him. Anyhow while there’s life
there’s hope, and if you can’t find him there you may run across him
down town some time. Keep your eyes open whenever you go about
the streets, and you’ll find him some day when you’ll least expect
him. I never go out without looking for him myself.”
Bruce paid two more visits to the Dexter mansion without learning
anything further, and it was then that he sat down and wrote the
letter to Skinny asking him how soon he expected to be back in town
again, the effect of which has been shown in a preceding chapter.
40.
A
Chapter XXXI.
bout onehour after the brief but violent sidewalk encounter
already described, a small and ragged street boy entered Chief
Trask’s quarters, cast a searching eye over the group of men who
were assembled there, and then walked quickly over to Bruce Decker,
who was at work, can in hand, oiling the wheels of the chief’s wagon.
“Is dis your name, boss?” he inquired, as he handed to him a letter,
enclosed in a dirty yellow envelope, on which was written, in
sprawling, uncertain characters, the words:
Bruce Decker,
In Care of Hook and Ladder.
The young fire lad opened the message, and deciphered the
following sentence:
“Cum down and meet me at Lyonse’s, and eat supper to-night. Wot time will you
come?
Skinny.”
“Dere’s an answer ter dat,” said the boy, as Bruce finished reading
the note.
41.
“Dere’s an answerter dat,” said
the boy.—Page 286.
“Very well, then, tell him I’ll be with him at six,” he said, and the
young ragamuffin departed, while Bruce resumed his work on the
chief’s wagon, amazed and delighted to get an answer in such a short
time to his letter. The afternoon seemed to pass very slowly, and at
half-past five he obtained the chief’s permission to go out for a little
while, and bent his steps immediately to Lyons’s, a restaurant on the
Bowery, which Skinny visited once in a while when he was
prosperous enough to treat himself to a substantial meal.
Bruce found the little newsboy standing in front of the open door.
“I got your note yesterday, an’ here I am,” was Skinny’s greeting, as
the two boys shook hands. “I cum right on de minute I knowed I wuz
wanted here,” he added, “an’ what’s more I’ve got dat mun’ yer let me
have de time we cum outter de hospital,” and he handed four dollars
and twenty-two cents to his companion, with a distinct look of pride.
It pleased Bruce very much to feel that his humble little friend was
so honest and so willing to do his bidding, and he said so in a hearty,
straightforward manner that Skinny readily understood. Then they
entered the restaurant, selected a quiet table, in an obscure corner,
and sat down to a nice supper, Skinny acting as host for perhaps the
first time in his life. And as they ate they talked, the newsboy
42.
describing his experienceson the farm, and Bruce plying him with
questions about the different country people he knew.
Never before in his life had Bruce felt so much like a character in a
story book as he did now, and even Skinny remarked that the
situation reminded him of a similar one in his favorite romance
“Shorty, the Boy Detective.”
It was the first time that the newsboy had ever entertained anyone
at a dinner as sumptuous as the one which he now offered to the
young lad whom he admired and liked as he liked and admired no
other human being. He recommended all the most expensive dishes
on the bill of fare, ordered the waiter around in a way that brought a
broad smile to that functionary’s face, and “showed off” in so many
other ways that Bruce, who was at heart a modest and unobtrusive
young chap, finally felt constrained to ask him to attract less
attention, and conduct himself with more decorum.
The fact was, that Skinny “felt his oats,” as they say in the country.
He was very proud to be called in as a sort of advisory counsel in
such a delicate and important matter as the one which now occupied
Bruce’s mind, and he was ready enough to give his friend the full
benefit of his long experience in the city and really remarkable
knowledge of the habits of crooked, crafty and dangerous people.
Young as he was, the newsboy had long since learned the great lesson
of eternal vigilance, and he knew well enough that the man whom he
called “Scar-faced Charlie” was not one in whom implicit confidence
should be reposed.
He listened attentively as Bruce described his visits to the Dexter
mansion, and then said to him “Wot’s de matter wid bracin’ him in
his Eldridge Street joint?”
“But I don’t know where it is,” replied the other.
“Come along wid me, an’ I’ll show yer,” said Skinny quickly, and,
having paid the check and handed the amazed waiter a quarter,
coupling his gift with an admonition to “hustle lively” the next time
he had any visitors of distinction to wait on, the newsboy led the way
down the Bowery which was by this time crowded with people and
brilliantly lighted, to Grand Street, and then in an easterly direction
to a corner from which he could see the building in which Mr.
Korwein had his office.
But beyond this corner Skinny positively refused to go. Plucky as
he was, and heedless of results, he had a profound fear for the big
43.
strong man outof whose stern grasp he had wriggled that very day.
“You go over dere, an’ brace de old bloke. I’ll wait here. He’s dere,
fer de lights in the windy,” he said. And Bruce was forced to make his
visit alone.
Never before in his life had he gone about any task that so tried his
nerves as this one, and it was fully five minutes before he could make
up his mind to open the door and enter the money-lender’s dingy
office. At last, however, his will conquered his fears, and he marched
boldly up the steps, opened the door and closed it behind him with a
sharp bang. Mr. Korwein was standing behind the tall desk adding
up a long column of figures in his ledger. He looked up as the boy
entered and said rather roughly: “Well, what can I do for you this
evening?”
“I’m not quite sure what you can do for me,” rejoined his visitor,
looking him carefully in the face and speaking in a tone which
arrested the tall man’s attention at once. “I heard that you are
making some rather particular inquiries about me, and I thought if
there was anything you wanted to know, I might be able to tell you
myself.”
“Inquiries about you!” repeated Mr. Korwein, dropping his pen
and coming out from behind the tall desk, in order to get a good view
of his visitor, “why, who are you?”
“My name is Bruce Decker, and I am the son of Frank Decker, the
fireman,” was the boy’s answer.
Not much in the words he uttered nor in the tone of his voice, one
would say. But enough to drive every particle of color from the
money-lender’s face and to cause him to start back with a half
suppressed oath on his lips, and an expression in which rage,
disappointment and astonishment seemed to be blended in equal
parts.
“Frank Decker’s son! He never had any son!” he exclaimed.
“Oh yes he did,” replied Bruce “and I am that son. I heard you were
looking for me. Now that I am here, tell me what you want.”
“And so you are really Frank’s boy are you,” said the money-
lender, speaking in a more conciliatory tone and evidently trying to
recover his equanimity, “well I am glad to see you, glad to see you.
I’ve been looking for you because, because—to tell the truth, there is
a little money coming to you, not much my boy, not very much, but
something. It was left to your father, and by his death goes to his
44.
next of kin.If you are really his son, you are entitled to it. But I must
have proof you know, proof, before I can pay it over. Where do you
live, my boy? Let me know your address and I will look you up and
see that you receive every cent that is your due.” He wiped the
perspiration from his face as he entered with much care in a
memorandum book the address which Bruce gave him, which was
that of Chief Trask’s house and not of the boy’s. And then, declaring
that he could say no more until he received absolute proof that Bruce
was what he represented himself to be, he opened the door and
ushered his visitor out into the street.
Bruce stood for a moment on the sidewalk, utterly bewildered by
what he had heard.
“Well, did yer brace de bloke?” demanded Skinny appearing
suddenly in front of him.
“Yes,” answered Bruce “and he told me he had some money to pay
me that was left to my father.”
“Hully gee,” exclaimed the boy. “Better look out though dat yer get
all wot’s comin’ to yer. Dat Scar-faced Charlie don’t never pay bills in
full.”
45.
I
Chapter XXXII.
n hisprivate office in the poor, shabby building, in which for
reasons best known to himself he had chosen to establish his place
of business, the tall saturnine black bearded and altogether
mysterious character known already to some of our readers sat busy
with books and letters.
In the outer office his bookkeeper stood at his tall desk pausing
now and then to talk to those who came in, intent on some business
errand, and once in a while referring some particular person to his
master who sat in the inside room.
It was just twelve o’clock and during the morning all sorts of
people had been coming and going in and out of that dingy little
place of business. Some of the visitors were well to do in appearance
while others looked as if poverty and misfortune had long since
claimed them as their own. Some were men and others women, and
there were three or four children among the clients of the place. If
the visitors were noticeable for any one thing it was for the stealthy
and mysterious manner in which they entered and made known their
wishes to the bookkeeper who stood guard at the outer office. This
functionary, by the way, seemed to be well acquainted with nearly
every one that called, and he usually had a word of greeting that was
sometimes pleasant sometimes sarcastic and often contemptuous. To
a man with a cast in his eye who slouched cautiously in after having
scanned the neighborhood from under his hat for at least three
minutes before entering, the bookkeeper said jocosely:
“Well what have you got for us to-day? Any nice loose diamonds or
a few watch cases?”
“Hush!” exclaimed the visitor warily as he laid his finger-against
his nose, “you’re always talking foolishly. Can I have a word with the
boss to-day?”
46.
“I guess so;you’re a pretty good customer here. So you may walk
right in.” The visitor tip-toed into the private room, closed the door
behind him, drew his chair up beside the tall saturnine man who was
still busy with his pen, and whispered something in his ear that
caused him to sit bolt upright and gaze sharply and with amazement
in the face of his visitor. For fully an hour the man with the cast in
his eye remained in the inner office and when he finally withdrew,
the other accompanied him to the door and stood for a moment
talking earnestly to him in a low voice before he permitted him to
depart. Then he went back to his desk, and his face as he passed
through the room, was so stern and troubled that one or two visitors
who were seated awaiting his pleasure viewed him carefully, then
shook their heads and departed, preferring to talk to him at some
time when they should find him in better humor. As for the visitors
they all came with one object in view which was money, for the well
dressed man who sat at the desk in the inner office made a business
of lending money at exorbitant rates of interest and on all sorts
securities.
“But why,” some reader might inquire, “should a man of good
connections and education embark in such a business and select as
his headquarters a dirty cheap office in a poverty stricken part of the
town?”
And the reply is that he selected a neighborhood in which he knew
money to be a scarce commodity, and which all his clients, the high
as well as the low, could visit without fear of detection. As has been
already said he had clients of various classes. There was one man, for
example, who could be found almost any evening in some
fashionable club or drawing-room up town and who, on the very
morning of which we write, had spent nearly half an hour in that
little private office. This man had debts amounting to $25,000, and a
father whose fortune of a million he had reasonable hopes of
acquiring in due course of time. But his father was a man of the
strictest honor, and the son well knew that if he were to hear of his
losses at cards and horse racing he would cut him off without a
dollar, and leave all his money to a distant cousin whom he had
always detested. Situated as he was, this man found the money-
lender of Eldridge Street a most convenient friend, and it was an easy
matter for the latter to persuade him that for the use of ten or fifteen
thousand dollars in cash with which to appease the most
47.
importunate of hiscreditors, he could well afford to give a note for
five times the amount payable after the death of his parent.
“And even now,” continued the money lender, shaking his head as
he handed him a large roll of bills, “I am taking risks that I ought not
to take with you or with anybody else. How do I know that you will
outlive your father? How do I know that the old man will leave you
anything when he dies? How do I know even that he has got anything
to leave, or that having it now he will have it a year hence? These are
ticklish times, and if I were a prudent business man, without
anything of the speculator in me, I would just hang on to what
money I’ve got, and let you and the rest of them like you shift for
yourselves. I’ve half a mind now,” he added, suddenly, as he
tightened his grip on the greenbacks, which had not quite passed out
of his hand, “to tear your note up and put the money back in my
safe.” But at this threat his visitor snatched the coveted roll from his
hand, placed it in his inside pocket, and buttoning his coat up tightly,
exclaimed, “Don’t talk to me about the chances you take, Mr.
Shylock, when you know perfectly well that I’m good for anything I
put my name to, and that it won’t be long before you get your own
again with a pound of my flesh into the bargain.”
It will be seen from this conversation that the mysterious bearded
man had a keen eye for business, and as his little shop was full of
customers from morning till night, one may readily believe that he
made a large income with very little mental or physical exertion on
his part.
It was just one o’clock when, having disposed of his visiter with the
cast in his eye, the money-lender sat behind his desk with his cigar in
his mouth, lost in thought. Something must have troubled him for
his brow was ruffled and from time to time an angry blush crept into
his cheek. One might have noticed too—had there been any one there
to notice him—that he started uneasily at every sound that came
from the little outer room and finally when he heard a woman’s voice
raised in shrill anger he stepped to the door, listened for a moment
or so and then come out to see what was the matter. It was an old
Irish woman who stood with a package in her hand talking angrily to
the bookkeeper.
“An’ sure you’ll not refuse a poor old woman the loan of a ten
dollar note on these little bits of things?” she was saying in a voice
that betrayed her peevishness and annoyance.
48.
“Can’t give youanything to-day, madam,” returned the bookkeeper
speaking very positively and then, noticing his employer he added,
“There’s the boss himself, and he’ll tell you the same thing.”
But the “boss” had already caught a glimpse of the old Irish
woman’s face, and to the intense surprise of his subordinate he
retreated suddenly into his private room, banged the door after him
and then thinking better of his act, opened it wide enough to say in a
low and guarded whisper, “Give the old woman what she wants and
bring the package in to me. Get her address, too, while you’re about
it.”
The bookkeeper did as he was ordered. And as the old woman
wrote her name on the receipt with trembling fingers she uttered:
“Now remember, I’ll be back for this when my allowance comes. But
me friends are coming back from Europe soon and they will never let
old Ann Crehan go hungry. They’ll all be back, the master and Miss
Emma and the two young children and then I’ll have everything I
want. An’ it’ll be a sorry day for that hard-hearted spalpeen who
forgot the one who took care of him and will let her go to the
poorhouse for the want of a few dollars. Sure his fine old uncle would
never threat me in that fashion.”
As the old woman departed, the clerk took the package into the
inner office and laid it before his employer, and the latter before
opening the paper shut and bolted the door. He found nothing within
but a few thin and worn silver spoons and an old fashioned open-
faced gold watch. Inside of the case was the following inscription
“FOR FIDELITY AND COURAGE
TO ANN CREHAN
FROM SAMUEL DEXTER.”
Well did that strong, bearded man, whose face, with its deep lines
and heavy, overhanging brow, was an index to his passionate, wilful
nature, know what that inscription meant. It carried him back in
memory to a bright, spring morning, years ago, when this same old
woman, whose tottering footsteps had just passed over his threshold,
was a servant in the family of his kinsman, Samuel Dexter, with
whom he, an orphan boy, had found a home. Well did he recall that
day, and the accident through which he might have lost his life had it
not been for the courage of the Irish servant, who rushed at the peril
49.
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