With the possible exception of John Trask, it is doubtful if Bruce had a
better friend in the whole company than Charley Weyman, who drove the
truck and was looked upon as one of the nerviest and most active firemen
in the battalion. Weyman had been Frank Decker’s most intimate friend,
and the natural interest which he took in the son was deepened by the
readiness shown by the latter to oblige his new friend and to help him
in every possible way in the discharge of his duty.
It was not unnatural then that Bruce should decide to repeat to Weyman
his strange experiences at Mr. Dexter’s house, and accordingly one
afternoon, a few days subsequent to his visit, he said to the fireman,
just as they had seated themselves for a quiet game of checkers: “There
was a funny thing happened to me the other day when I went after those
books, and I’d like to know if you could give me any explanation of it.”
“Well, what was the funny thing?” inquired the other, as he moved one of
his men in the direction of the king row.
“Well, you know Chief Trask sent me up to Mr. Dexter’s house to get a
lot of books and magazines. I don’t suppose you were ever up there, were
you?”
“No, can’t say that I ever was, but it’s your move,” rejoined Weyman.
“It’s a great big house,” went on Bruce, as he moved one of his men so
carelessly that his opponent instantly took it, “in fact it’s one of the
finest houses I was ever in. There’s a big, thick hedge that separates
it from the street, and when you get inside the hedge there’s a roadway
that winds through a big, thick clump of firs and pines, right up to the
front door of the house. The minute I came inside the gate the place
took on a familiar look and I was positive that some time or other I’d
been there before. When I stopped in front of the door, that looked
familiar too, and then I seemed to remember that there was another door
on the other side of the house that was smaller and had a little porch
over it, so as to shade the doorstep. Just to see if I was right or not,
I got out and walked around the house and there, sure enough, was the
side door, just as I had either dreamt it or remembered it some time
ever so many years ago; only it seemed to me that in reality the place
was only about one quarter as big as I had imagined it.”
By this time Weyman had become so much interested in the boy’s narrative
that he had ceased entirely to think of the game and was now gazing at
Bruce in the intense manner of one who is hearing some startling piece
of news in which he has a strong personal interest.
“You say that you remember the place and yet you were never there
before?” demanded the fireman.
“Yes,” answered the boy, “and moreover I don’t think that I could have
seen a picture of it, for the smell of the flowers and of the vines over
the porch was just as familiar to my nostrils as the doorway was to my
eyes. I don’t think I could ever have been there before, and it seemed
to me as if I had dreamt of the place, not once, but a great many
times.”
For a moment or two Charles Weyman was silent, then he pushed away the
checkerboard and said: “What you’ve just told me, Bruce, is very curious
and seems to confirm an idea that came to me long ago when your father
was alive. Do you know anything about your father or his relations?”
Bruce thought a minute, and then answered: “No, I never knew he had any
relations. I was brought up by some old people who lived in the country
on the shore of Lake Ontario and only saw my father once a year. Then he
never used to talk to me about anything except the fire company, and it
was that that made me crazy to join the service. If he had any brothers
or sisters or cousins he never mentioned them to me, and to tell the
truth this is the first time in my life that I ever thought about the
subject.”
“But didn’t your mother have any relations who are living now?” inquired
Weyman.
“Not that I ever heard of. She died when I was very young and I can
scarcely remember her. Since then I lived with those old people, who
took care of me, but after my father died, I determined to strike out
for myself and so I came down to New York.”
“Well, if I were you,” said Weyman, “I would write home to someone in
the country who knew your father, and make some inquiries about his
family. In fact, I should think you’d like to know who you are. There
was always something mysterious about your father—something that I never
could understand. He was a man of much better education than any of the
rest of us, and I remember once or twice seeing well dressed gentlemen,
evidently men of high position, stop in the streets to shake hands and
talk with him. On such occasions he never offered any explanation except
to ask me not to speak of it to the other men. Well as I knew him, I
never knew positively that he had a child living, and I was more
surprised than any man in the company when you turned up that afternoon
and told us you were Frank Decker’s son.”
“But,” exclaimed Bruce, who, of course, had become very much interested
in his companion’s words, “didn’t you ever hear him say anything or
mention any name that could serve as a sort of clue to his origin? If I
had anything to work on, I might follow it up and perhaps find out who
his relations were. However, perhaps it would not be worth the trouble,
for they might not be particularly glad to have a poor boy like me, who
hasn’t a cent in the world, turn up and claim connection with them. I
think I am just about as well off here as I would be with any of my
kin.”
“There are one or two things about your father that come to my mind
now,” said Weyman, after a moment’s reflection, “and although I gave
them no thought at the time, still they might be of some use to you.
There was a man who came around to see him once in a while, and when he
came the two always went out and walked up and down the street, talking
together. Sometimes they got excited, and I noticed that your father was
never the same after one of these visits. He would sit in a corner,
moody and sullen, sometimes talking to himself, and it would take him a
couple of days to get back to his old frame of mind again. He was
naturally a light-hearted, jovial fellow, and that’s why I couldn’t help
noticing the effect these visits had on him.”
“What sort of a looking man was he, who called on him, and always seemed
to upset him so?” asked the boy.
“He was tall and dark and well-dressed, and I’d know him anywhere by a
scar he had on his face that was partly hidden by a stiff black beard he
always wore. The last time he was here was the day before the big fire
at which your father was killed. I remember it well, because that
morning before the first alarm came in Frank hardly spoke to me, but sat
over there in that corner, smoking his pipe and looking as if he had
lost the last friend he had on earth.”
“And you don’t know who that dark man was or what name he gave?” said
the boy.
Weyman shook his head slowly. “No,” he said, “I did know his name once,
but it passed out of my mind. If I were you, I would write a letter up
to the country and see if I couldn’t find out something in the way of a
clue.”
Just at this moment Chief Trask came in and told Bruce to hitch up the
wagon and go with him up to headquarters, and so the conversation came
to an end. But all that day the young boy was very thoughtful, and when
night came he had determined to set to work, quietly and persistently,
to find out something about his father and his mother, and to learn if
he had any kindred living in the world. He had no clues to follow except
the legend of the dark man with the scar on his face, and the
resemblance of Philip Dexter’s house to something of which he had once
dreamt and still had a vague recollection.