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THE THIRD ALARM
[Illustration: ‘“Well my boy,” said the chief of battalion, “what can I
do for you?”’—_Frontispiece._]
THE
THIRD ALARM
A STORY OF THE NEW YORK FIRE DEPARTMENT
BY
JAMES L. FORD
_Author of “Hypnotic Tales,” “Dr. Dodd’s School,” etc._
New York
BRENTANO’S
CHICAGO PARIS WASHINGTON
_Copyright, 1893_,
BY
BRENTANO’S.
[Illustration: This Book]
IS DEDICATED BY ITS AUTHOR
TO
A NEW YORK FIREMAN,
JOHN J. BRESNAN,
_Chief of Sixth Battalion, N. Y. F. D._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
Chapter I.
Chapter II.
Chapter III.
Chapter IV.
Chapter V.
Chapter VI.
Chapter VII.
Chapter VIII.
Chapter IX.
Chapter X.
Chapter XI.
Chapter XII.
Chapter XIII.
Chapter XIV.
Chapter XV.
Chapter XVI.
Chapter XVII.
Chapter XVIII.
Chapter XIX.
Chapter XX.
Chapter XXI.
Chapter XXII.
Chapter XXIII.
Chapter XXIV.
Chapter XXV.
Chapter XXVI.
Chapter XXVII.
Chapter XXVIII.
Chapter XXIX.
Chapter XXX.
Chapter XXXI.
Chapter XXXII.
Chapter XXXIII.
Chapter XXXIV.
Chapter XXXV.
Chapter XXXVI.
Chapter XXXVII.
Chapter XXXVIII.
Chapter XXXIX.
Chapter XXXX.
Chapter XXXXI.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
“Well my boy what can I do for you?” _Frontispiece_
“Well, Pete, old fellow, I’ve heard of you many a time.” 8
Chief Trask explains the fire box to Bruce. 17
“For fully a minute Bruce stood looking at the house.” 47
Bruce tells Laura the story of his visit to Mr. Dexter’s
house. 72
Bruce in Mr. Dewsnap’s “fire library.” 79
“Never in his life had Bruce known such a reckless
ride.” 91
“She was certainly very deaf.” 98
Bruce delivers a lecture on botany. 122
“Did you get the beggars’ time?” 136
“He managed to climb out on the ladder.” 156
Laura visits Bruce in the hospital. 190
Then Laura began to cry. 202
“So you’ve been in the hospital, have you?” 225
“My mother is buried here.” 248
“Mr. Dexter * * * held out his hand for the address.” 257
“Skinny writes a letter to Mr. Korwein.” 270
“Dere’s an answer ter dat.” 286
“And so this is the business you conduct, is it?” 317
“The horses bounded to their places.” 343
“A single slip or false step on his part meant death.” 368
THE THIRD ALARM.
CHAPTER I.
“Do you see that boy sitting on the curbstone over the way? Well, he’s
been there for the last half hour, and I’d just like to know what he’s
up to. Run over, Charley, and ask him what he wants.”
It was John Trask, a chief of battalion in the New York Fire Department
who addressed these words to his subordinate, Charley Weyman, one
pleasant afternoon in early spring, and the boy to whom he referred had
been sitting for some time on the curbstone across the street from the
hook and ladder company’s quarters, peering anxiously through the open
door which afforded him a view of the hook and ladder truck, the horses
quietly munching their hay, and, in the rear room, half a dozen firemen
seated about a table talking, reading or playing checkers.
The boy, who seemed to be about fifteen years of age, looked as if he
had just reached town after a long and weary walk. His clothes were torn
and travel-stained, and there was a gaunt, hungry look in his face that
spoke unmistakably of want and privation. It was this look and the boy’s
dejected attitude which had first attracted the chief’s attention for he
feared that he might be waiting for a chance to get into the building,
and steal what he could lay his hands on.
“There’s something queer about that kid,” he continued, half to himself,
as he watched Weyman cross the street and enter into conversation with
him. “Hulloa! he’s bringing him over here; he must want to see
somebody,” and just then the fireman entered leading the boy with him.
“He says he wants to see you, chief,” said Weyman, seating himself in an
arm-chair while the boy stood with his hat in his hand waiting
respectfully for the other to address him.
“Well, my boy,” said the chief of battalion in a kindly voice, “what can
I do for you?”
“Are you Mr. John Trask, chief of the battalion?” inquired the boy.
“I am” was the reply.
“Well, did you ever have a man here in the company named Frank Decker?”
At the mention of this name a sudden silence fell upon the little group
of men who were gathered about the table, newspapers were laid aside,
the talking ceased, and every eye was turned on the hungry looking,
travel-stained boy who stood with his hat in his hand, looking the chief
squarely in the face while he put the question.
The chief paused a moment as he adjusted a pair of eye-glasses on his
nose, and then answered in a voice that had something of a stern
soldierly ring in it: “I knew Frank Decker well, and I wish there were
more men on the earth like him. But what have you to do with Frank
Decker?”
“My name is Bruce Decker and Frank Decker was my father” replied the
boy, still looking the chief squarely in the eye and trying to speak
steadily, but there was a little break in his voice as he mentioned his
father’s name and a faint quiver in his lower lip as he finished. “Frank
Decker’s boy!” exclaimed Weyman springing to his feet, “Why I never knew
he had a boy!”
“Where do you come from, young man?” inquired Chief Trask, regarding him
now with a new interest and shifting his position so as to get a clear
view of the young lad’s face.
“I come from Oswego County way back in the state, where I’ve lived all
my life. I got here early this morning and came here because I had no
other place to go to. I’ve never been in New York before, but father
used to tell me about you and a friend of his named Mr. Weyman and so I
thought maybe you’d be willing to give me a lift, if only on his
account.”
“Upon my word I believe the boy is speaking the truth,” said Chief
Trask; “he’s got Frank’s nose and eyes and his straight way of looking
at you and—here just turn around a moment, my boy—yes, there it is, that
little patch of gray on the back of his head that Frank used to tell us
was the birth mark of every Decker that ever was born. Well young
man—Bruce you say your name is? I’m glad to see you, and what’s more
I’ll be glad to help you, if you need help. Here, give me your hand and
sit down beside me.”
Bruce seated himself beside his new friend and then Weyman stepped over
and whispered something in the chief’s ear.
“Certainly!” exclaimed that official hastily, “come along with me, boy,
and have something to eat; it’s just about dinner time.”
As the two left the truck house the others laid aside their newspapers
and games and began an eager discussion of the new arrival, whose father
had been, until his death three months before, a member of the company.
“I heard once that he had a boy somewhere up the country,” said Tom
Brophy, “and I’ve no doubt this lad is just what he claims to be, the
son of Frank Decker, because he resembles him in every particular. And
if he is Frank’s son why we ought to see to it that he has a fair chance
to get along here, and not turn him adrift—to make out as best he can.
We’re not one of us rich, but we’re not so poor that we can’t spare a
dollar now and then for a son of one of the squarest and best men that
the department ever had.”
Brophy’s words were received with a degree of enthusiasm and approval
that showed plainly that he and his comrades were of one mind as to the
course they should pursue in welcoming and looking after the son of
their old friend, and until the return of the boy and Chief Trask, they
sat talking over the days when Frank Decker was one of the quickest,
bravest and most popular men in all the department.
But before proceeding any further with our story, it will be necessary
to turn back to the time about twelve years before the appearance of
Bruce Decker at the door of the New York truck house, when Frank Decker,
a strong, hearty, active man of twenty-five, turned his back on the
little village near Lake Ontario, where he had just buried his young
wife, and, having placed his little boy in the care of some distant
relatives, set out for the city in the hope of beginning anew a career
which had been broken by financial misfortune and the loss of his wife.
Through the influence of an old friend he had obtained an appointment in
the fire department, in which service he had distinguished himself by
his bravery, coolness and zeal, qualities which served to commend him to
the notice of the chief officers of the department, and which would
probably have won for him a place at the head of a battalion, had it not
been for the awful catastrophe at the burning of the Gothic Hotel on
Broadway.
On this occasion Decker arrived, entered the hotel at the command of his
chief, and ascended the staircase, in order to save some women who were
supposed to be in one of the upper floors. That was the last seen of
him, and late that night when the rest of his company had been relieved
and were slowly making their way home, they spoke little of anything or
anybody, save Frank Decker, who was among the missing and who had gone
down before that awful sheet of flame that broke out and swept through
the hotel about five minutes after he was seen to enter the building.
Half a dozen charred bodies were taken from the ruins the next day, but
which one of them had once been Frank Decker no one could tell.
And while the father had been at work in the fire department, the child
whom he had left in the little village in the northern part of the
State, had grown in health, strength and mind, and was now in his
sixteenth year, an active, vigorous, straightforward youth, who
inherited all his father’s daring and quickness, together with a
willingness to learn and a decided taste for books, which had come to
him direct from his mother.
During his short life he had cherished but one ambition, which was to
become a fireman, and most of the correspondence which he always
maintained with his father, had been in regard to the workings of the
New York department, and particularly the battalion to which the elder
belonged. Once a year the father had returned to his old home on the
shore of the great fresh water lake to spend his short vacation with his
boy, and during these visits it had been the habit of the two to take
long walks and sails together, enjoying themselves after their own
fashion, the boy listening with flushed cheeks and bated breath, while
his father described to him the life of excitement and danger which he
led as a member of what he always called, “the greatest fire department
in the world.”
From his father’s lips the boy had heard stories of the swift runs to
fires, of thrilling midnight rescues, of brave firemen plunging into
solid sheets of smoke and flame, and so strong a hold had these stories
taken on his mind that his desire to become a fireman himself had slowly
grown within him, until it became the one fixed and cherished ambition
of his life.
So it happened, naturally enough, that at his father’s death he resolved
to make his way to New York and ask John Trask, the chief of his
father’s old battalion, to appoint him to a place in the Department.
We have described in an earlier part of this chapter the arrival of
Bruce Decker, footsore and travel-stained at the truck house, and his
reception at the hands of the chief and his subordinates, and we left
him going out for dinner under the guidance of his newly-made friend.
When he returned from the restaurant where he had enjoyed a hearty meal
and a long, confidential talk with the chief, he stopped by the stalls
in which the horses were standing, stroked the nose of the big gray, and
said, without an instant’s hesitation: “Well, Pete, old fellow, I’ve
heard of you many a time,” and the horse laid his muzzle on the boy’s
shoulder and whinnied softly, as if he were returning the friendly
greeting. The men noticed this and exchanged significant glances.
[Illustration: “Well, Pete, old fellow, I’ve heard of you many a
time.”—_Page 8._]
“Just like his father,” said Weyman, in a low voice, “do you remember
how fond Frank used to be of those horses? Why, he never came into the
house without stopping to pet them.”
“Well, my little man, how would you like to become a fireman?” enquired
Chief Trask, pleasantly, as he seated himself in his arm-chair and
prepared to light his pipe. But before Bruce could answer, the sharp
ring of the alarm bell echoed through the building and startled everyone
into sudden activity.