Bruce had always been fond of reading since his earliest childhood, and
it was his habit, when not otherwise employed, to spend most of his time
seated in the back room of the quarters reading whatever books or
newspapers he could find there. These books and newspapers were
contributed by different well-disposed people who, having more reading
matter than they required, remembered the firemen, and distributed them
along the different engine houses in the town. One morning, while the
boy was engaged in this manner, a tall, well-built and military looking
gentleman, who seemed to be fully seventy years of age, entered the
quarters and inquired for the chief.
“He’s upstairs, sir, but I’ll call him down,” said Bruce, promptly
rising and offering the old gentleman a chair. Then he went upstairs and
a moment later the chief came down and quickly recognized in his visitor
an acquaintance known as Mr. Samuel Dexter, who lived in an
old-fashioned house in the northern part of the city.
Mr. Dexter told him that he had called simply to gratify his curiosity
in regard to the fire department, and after the chief had shown him the
different sorts of apparatus kept there, and explained the method of
getting out quickly, his visitor asked him what they did for reading
matter.
“Well, we are dependent on our friends for that,” replied the chief,
“there are a number of people who send us books and papers from time to
time, and without them, I can assure you that the hours would hang
pretty heavily on our hands.”
“Why, I have a lot of books and magazines in my garret that I shall
never have any use for,” exclaimed Mr. Dexter, “and if you could send up
for them some day, I would be very glad to let you have them.” Chief
Trask thanked him for his offer and turning to Bruce who stood by,
directed him to drive up there in one of his wagons the next morning and
get the periodicals.
The next day accordingly, Bruce started in the chief’s wagon and drove
slowly up Lexington avenue, then turning to the right and crossing the
Harlem river he found himself in an entirely strange part of the city.
There were not many houses to be seen, and down near the water were
great stretches of open fields and in some places heaps of lumber and
enormous bins of coal. Continuing in a northerly direction he soon found
the quiet avenue on which Mr. Dexter lived, and then he entered a wide
gate and drove along a short roadway leading to a big, square, gloomy
looking stone house, completely hidden from the street by a dense hedge
and some thick clusters of fir trees.
He knew from the description that had been given him that he had found
the right place, and somehow, the house, the big hedge and the front
doorway seemed strangely familiar to him. It seemed to him that some
time in the remote past he had either been there before or else dreamt
of just such a place, only the picture that had remained faintly
outlined in his mind was of a house and hedge and trees that were fully
five times as tall as those which he now saw before him. And then it
seemed to him that the old picture which had lingered, though forgotten,
in his mind for so many years contained also another door in the same
house, a side door that was smaller and shaded by vines that clambered
about a wooden porch. He had alighted from the wagon by this time and,
impelled by curiosity, he tied his horse to a post in which was set a
great rusty iron ring, and then walked around the house to see if his
dream or memory whatever it might be, would prove true.
[Illustration: “For fully a minute Bruce stood looking at the
house.”—_Page 47._]
Yes, there was the old doorway with the clematis clambering about it,
just as his fancy had painted it, except that the door seemed smaller,
and the clinging vines less luxuriant than in his dream. For fully a
minute Bruce stood looking at the house and wondering when he could have
seen it before, or whether it was simply an accidental freak of his
imagination that made the scene seem so familiar to him.
He was still looking and wondering when the door opened and Mr. Dexter
himself appeared on the doorsill.
“Come in young man,” he said, “you’ve come up for those old books and
magazines I suppose.”
“Yes sir,” replied the boy, taking off his hat respectfully. “Chief
Trask sent me up for them with the wagon.” Following the old gentleman,
he entered a dark hallway, in one corner of which stood a heap of
novels, books of travel, magazines and other publications, which had
been brought down that morning from the garret. The boy’s eyes glistened
as he looked at the big heap, and thought of the pleasure that he would
have in going through them, during his next leisure hours. Aided by one
of Mr. Dexter’s servants, he placed them in the wagon, and then, having
thanked the old gentleman for his kindness, he drove slowly down the
winding roadway, and thence through the gate into the street. He stopped
a moment to look at the landscape that lay stretched before him, hoping
that he might see in it some object that, like the old front porch would
recall some childish memory, but there was nothing that was in any way
familiar to him, and he drove away shaking his head and very much
puzzled by what he had seen. He was still thinking over the events of
the day and wondering whether he had ever seen Mr. Dexter before, for
his face too had a familiar look and somehow seemed to be perfectly in
accord with the old stone house and the big, solemn hedge that hid it
from the road, when his attention was attracted by a voice that seemed
to come almost from under the carriage wheels.
“I say, can’t you give me a lift? I’ve hurt my ankle,” was what he
heard, as he hastily pulled up his horse and there, seated on a big
rock, by the roadside, was a young boy, apparently not more than fifteen
years of age, whose handsome clothes were torn and dust-covered, and
whose face was deathly pale. Bruce alighted at once from the wagon and
asked him what the matter was.
“I was just on my way home,” replied the boy, “and I tried to make a
running jump over those rocks, when I slipped and fell, now it hurts me
to touch my foot to the ground, and my left ankle hurts me awfully.
Can’t you take me home in your wagon? My father will pay you for your
trouble.”
“Certainly, I’ll give you a lift,” replied Bruce, “but your father
needn’t pay me anything for it; just stand up beside me and I’ll lift
you in.”
With a little trouble, he placed the boy in the seat and then climbed in
himself and sat down beside him. The two lads were not slow in making
one another’s acquaintance. The injured boy said that his name was Harry
Van Kuren and he pointed out his father’s house, a large handsome
residence surrounded by well kept grounds. He was fifteen years old, he
said, and did not go to school, but had a private tutor who lived in the
house with him, and nearly always accompanied him when he went out to
walk or ride.
“And how do you happen to be here?” inquired young Van Kuren.
Then Bruce told him of his errand to Mr. Dexter’s and showed him the
pile of books and magazines which he was taking back for the firemen to
read.
“But you don’t mean to say that you belong to the fire department, do
you?” exclaimed Harry excitedly.
“Yes, I’ve been on the force pretty near three months,” answered Bruce
proudly.
“My, but you’re a lucky chap,” cried his companion. “I just wish my
father would let me join, but he won’t let me do anything I want to. I
never have any fun anyway; there’s nothing to do in this stupid old
place, except to go riding on my pony, and once in a while have a sail
on the Sound. There are no other boys for me to play with—that is, none
that I like—and I have to go in the house every night at six and stay
there till bedtime. I suppose you have all the fun in the world getting
up in the middle of the night and going to fires, and driving like mad
through the streets. Say, why can’t you let me go out with you some
time.”
But Bruce shook his head dubiously, he was willing to have the boy
imagine that he himself was one of the leading members of the company,
and he wished moreover to impress him with the idea that it was no easy
matter for a young boy to become a member of the New York Fire
Department. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that you’d find it very difficult to
get an appointment. I believe I’m the youngest member of the whole
department, and I know I never would have been taken on, if it hadn’t
been on account of my father, who was a fireman before me.”
“And is your father on the department yet?” demanded Harry.
“No,” replied Bruce with a little choking sound in his voice, “he was
killed at a fire some months ago and then they gave me a position on
account of him.”
“Your father was killed at a fire? Oh I’m awfully sorry!” exclaimed
Harry, who was an impulsive and warm-hearted, although somewhat spoiled
boy, “but I’m going to tell my father about you, and ask him if you
can’t come up and visit me some time. Here’s our entrance; just drive me
down to the side door will you please, and I’ll get one of the servants
to help me up stairs.”
Bruce helped his new friend to alight and then a man servant appeared in
answer to his ring, and on learning that his young master was hurt,
started off in much alarm in quest of the private tutor, but was called
back imperiously by young Master Harry and ordered to “lend a hand” in
getting him into the house.
As Bruce turned to leave, the boy held out his hand in a frank,
straightforward way that was very agreeable and said, “I’m very much
obliged to you for bringing me home, and now that I’ve got your address
I’m going to write and ask you to come up and see me. My father will be
mad enough when he comes home and finds what’s happened to me, because
he told me I wasn’t to go off the grounds to-day. But he’ll come around
all right in a week then we’ll have fun together.”
And as Bruce drove out of the handsome grounds of Mr. Van Kuren’s house,
he felt that it had been a well spent and eventful day for him. He felt
sure that he had made a friend in young Van Kuren, and then he fell to
thinking of Mr. Dexter and his big stone house and his familiar looking
porch and the little side door with its clinging vines, and he wondered
for the hundredth time under what circumstances he could have seen them
before.