It was not at all unnatural that Bruce Decker should cherish in his
heart a strong desire to go to a fire as one of the members of the truck
company. This longing grew stronger in his heart every day, and when the
opportunity did come it found him, fortunately enough, ready to make the
most of it.
It happened one warm day in August, that three or four of the men were
absent on their summer’s vacation and one or two others because of
illness, and while the company was thus crippled, Charley Weyman fell
and hurt his right arm so badly that the chief advised him to go around
to the nearest doctor’s and have it dressed. As the injured fireman left
the quarters, his superior turned to Bruce and said, “My boy, you see
how short-handed we are to-day; now do you think that if an alarm should
come in you could take Weyman’s place on the driver’s seat?”
The boy’s eyes brightened and there was an eager look in his face as he
made answer, “I’m sure I could and I only wish that an alarm would come
in.”
“All right,” said the chief “just keep yourself in readiness for we can
never know when there is an alarm coming.”
Then he went up stairs, and Bruce stepped out into the street, and
looked up and down it as far as his eye could reach as if he expected to
see the smoke and flame bursting out from some building within his range
of vision. But the sun poured down on his bare head, and he was soon
glad to retreat to the shade of the quarters, where he stood idly
looking at the brass gongs, and wondering how soon they would begin to
ring out their tale of smoke, flame and disaster.
And then the thought occurred to him that he had no right to stand there
wishing for a fire which might bring ruin and death to his fellow
creatures, and could benefit no one but himself; and it was not at all
certain that it would benefit even him. So he satisfied his conscience
by changing the form although not the tenor of his thoughts. “I wish,”
he said to himself “that if it were necessary for the world’s good to
have a fire to-day that it might be right here within this district.
There’s no harm in wishing that I’m sure. Of course I wouldn’t like to
have any people killed at the fire or to have any poor man lose all his
furniture and clothes, but there are fires every day, and this is the
first time I’ve ever had a chance—”
“Clang! clang!” rang out the brass gong at his side, and never, since
the first time that he heard an alarm ring, had the sound of the bell
stirred him with such excitement as it did now.
His opportunity had come at last, and without a moment’s delay he
clambered up over the wheel of the truck and dropped into the driver’s
seat.
He knew that some of the men were racing in from the back room, that
others were sliding down the brass poles, and that two of them were
already at the horses’ heads, while another was adjusting the harness on
the chief’s wagon.
And all this time Bruce was saying to himself, “Now, I’m going to keep
cool, no matter what happens, and I’ll not spoil the greatest chance of
my life by getting nervous.”
It was with this thought in his mind that he seized the reins and waited
quietly until the men had snapped the collars about the horses’ necks
and fastened the reins to their bits. Meantime the brass gong had been
ringing the number of the station, and the boy, with his wits entirely
about him, was keeping count of the strokes.
“One, two, three—one, two—one, two, three, four, that’s 324,” he said to
himself as he tightened the reins, while the men gave the eager horses
their heads and sprang up on the truck.
Bruce knew where station No. 324 was, for he had long since familiarized
himself thoroughly with the district in which the company was located,
so as he passed over the threshold he gave the horses their heads, and
turning sharply to the right was soon on his way to the densely
populated east side region in which the fire was raging.
Chief Trask, seated in his little wagon, passed him before he had
reached the first corner, his horse going at full gallop, and the gong
in the dashboard ringing out its sharp warnings. As the chief went by he
turned his head and saw his young protege sitting bolt upright in
Weyman’s seat, looking carefully ahead of him, and keeping his horses
well in hand although they were going at almost their best speed. The
boy seemed perfectly cool, and it was apparent to the superior officer
that he knew what his duty was and proposed to perform it. Then the
chief took the lead, and as they passed the first street, the engine and
tender, with Captain Murphy in command, came thundering along, turned
the corner, and fell in behind them. Now they turned into a crowded
thoroughfare where the people, warned by the sharp clanging of the gong
in the chief’s wagon, hastily made way for the flying battalion. Down
this thoroughfare for three blocks—and never in his life had Bruce known
such a reckless ride—then another sharp turn carried them into full view
of the fire.
[Illustration: Down this thoroughfare for three blocks—and never in his
life had Bruce known such a reckless ride.—_Page 91._]
The upper story of a factory was ablaze, and in the street in front of
it two policemen were vainly trying to keep back an excited throng of
people, many of whom were yelling and gesticulating and talking in
German and Polish, while others were weeping from sheer excitement. The
chief was on the sidewalk in a moment and, in an incredibly short space
of time, the crowd had been driven away to a respectful distance, the
hose attached to a hydrant across the street and run rapidly out to a
convenient length, while the members of the truck company, acting under
their chief’s order, were quickly and quietly getting their ladders
against the front of the building and preparing to ascend. Bruce did not
know exactly what he was expected to do, but concluded that it would be
best for him to sit where he was and take care of his horses. From his
place in the driver’s seat he noted carefully the speedy, intelligent
and systematic work of the brigade. He saw the chief of battalion cast
his practiced eye at the building and then tell his men where to direct
the streams of water. In less than two minutes the flames were under
control, and the frightened people, who had been screaming and crying in
the street, realized that what they had mistaken for an awful
conflagration was in reality nothing but a comparatively harmless
combustion in the factory’s upper floor, that no lives had been
jeopardized, and that all danger of the flames spreading had vanished in
the face of the rapid and efficient work of Chief Trask’s men.
The neighborhood was inhabited chiefly by foreigners, and Bruce could
hear these people talking to one another in half a dozen strange
tongues, as they leaned out of windows or crowded about the engines as
closely as the police would allow them. And among this crowd of
chattering, excited aliens, Bruce noticed one man of striking
appearance, who seemed totally different from those about him, and who
stood on the steps of a tenement house and watched the fire with
amusement and interest reflected on his countenance.
In marked contrast to the other denizens of the street, this man was
well dressed and carried with him an unmistakable air of prosperity. He
was tall and dark, and his heavy black beard was cropped close to his
face. As he stood on the top step the boy could see his profile,
distinctly. It was clear cut, the nose slightly aquiline and the chin
and mouth firm and square. He wondered idly what this well-dressed man
could be doing in that part of the city, and, while he was still
wondering, the subject of his thoughts came down the steps and walked
quickly away, for by this time the fire was out, the men were reeling up
the hose, and the members of the truck company were returning their
apparatus to the truck and preparing to go home.
At the same time the uniformed employees of the insurance patrol placed
themselves in the doorways of the factory and Chief Trask came over to
where Bruce was sitting with his horses and bade him start for home. As
they drove slowly in the direction of the quarters they passed the tall
man with the close cropped black beard. He eyed them sharply, as they
went by, and as he turned his face, Bruce noticed what he had not
observed before, namely, a long scar which ran obliquely across his
chin.
Just at this moment he heard one of the men on the truck behind him say
to his fellow: “There’s that tall, ugly looking chap that used to come
round to the quarters every once and a while, I haven’t seen him for six
months now, and I don’t know that I want to see him again, for I never
liked his looks.” Bruce eagerly turned his head for a final glimpse of
the dark stranger, but he had disappeared.
“Never mind,” he said to himself, “that face is fixed in my mind and
I’ll never forget it. One of these days I’ll find out who that man is,
and what he had to do with my father.”
That afternoon he sat in his accustomed corner in the back room of the
quarters, thinking over his day’s experience. He was very quiet and did
not join in the conversation that was going on around him. He wanted to
tell his friend, Weyman, about the tall stranger with the scar on his
chin, and he would have done so, had it not been that he remembered
Laura’s emphatic order not to allow any one but herself to share his
secret.
For fully half an hour he thought the matter over, and then determined,
reluctantly it must be owned, not to say anything about it to Weyman,
until he had obtained the young girl’s permission.
And it was just at this stage of his investigations that he made his
first serious blunder. If he had gone at once to his friend and told him
about the man whom he had seen down among the Poles and Russians and
Germans, in the tenement house quarter of the town, it would have made a
great difference in his life. But he allowed himself to be influenced by
a pretty, imperious, spoiled little girl, instead of by a quick-witted,
sensible and devoted friend, with results which will be described in
future chapters of this story.