Mr. Van Kuren was seated at the breakfast table when the morning mail
arrived and the servant placed the letters and papers in his hand.
Glancing hurriedly at them, he noticed that one envelope bore the
inscription of the New York hospital and was addressed to Miss Laura Van
Kuren. The children had told him about Bruce’s misfortune and he guessed
at once that the letter was from him. A cloud came across his face at
once for he rightly considered his daughter too young to write to and
receive letters from young boys, especially those of whom he knew as
little as he did of Bruce. He said nothing at the time but slipped the
letter into his pocket and as soon as breakfast was over bade Laura
follow him into the library.
“Here is a letter for you, my daughter,” he said quietly, “and you may
read it now.”
The young girl colored up to the roots of her hair as she opened the
letter and hastily read it. Then she handed it to her father to read and
she knew from the expression of his face that its contents were anything
but pleasing to him. When he had finished it he said to her sternly: “I
am surprised indeed, Laura, that you should discuss family secrets which
you do not yourself comprehend, with a boy who is a complete stranger to
us all, and I am grieved to learn that you went down to the hospital to
visit him without saying anything about it to me or to your aunt. How
did you ever come to mention the name of Mr. Dexter to this boy and how
did he ever learn anything about this dark bearded man with the scar?
Years ago, as you and Harry know perfectly well, you were both forbidden
to go near the Dexter house or ask any questions concerning him or his
family. I had excellent reasons for not discussing with you matters
which you are still too young to understand. Now tell me how you came to
seek information from this young rascal with whom you are carrying on a
secret correspondence.”
Laura, who had listened to her father’s words with downcast eyes, bit
her lips angrily when she heard Bruce called “a young rascal.” She did
not wish to tell her father the secret which she felt belonged by right
not to her but to Bruce, and yet she knew that she must make some sort
of reply, so she answered after a moment’s hesitation: “He knew Mr.
Dexter because he was sent up there on an errand that day that he found
Harry with his sprained ankle and brought him home. So we got to talking
about him and I told him that Harry and I had been forbidden to go near
the house.”
[Illustration: Then Laura began to cry.—_Page 203._]
Then Laura began to cry and her father, having peremptorily ordered her
not to reply to Bruce’s letter, started for his office, stopping a
moment to tell Mr. Reed what had happened, and to bid him put a stop at
once to the intimacy with the young fireman who had, as he imagined,
transgressed the law of hospitality by writing letters to the young
girl.
It was a dreary day for the brother and sister when they learned from
the lips of the tutor that their father had forbidden them to have
anything further to do with their new friend whom they both liked so
much. Harry was particularly displeased because he declared that it was
all Laura’s fault for sneaking off by herself to visit him and then
getting him to write letters to her, which she should have known was
altogether improper. Laura on her part declared that if Harry had not
been so hateful she would never have thought of doing anything to spite
him and ended the discussion by declaring angrily, that she thought boys
a nuisance and she was never going to have anything more to do with any
of them so long as she lived. That afternoon Kitty Harriott came to see
her, and on learning the dreadful news, proceeded to console her as well
as she could, assuring her friend that it would all come out right after
all just as it did in the story books of which they were so fond.
During the first few days of his confinement in the hospital, Bruce
found that the time hung very heavy on his hands, that his wounds were
painful, his spirits low, and if it had not been for the occasional
visits of his friends from the quarters, it is possible that he would
have come to the conclusion that after all a fireman’s life was not a
happy one. He was rather surprised that the Van Kuren children neither
came to see him again nor wrote to him, but the truth was that Harry and
Laura who were, in spite of their many faults, tactful children and
thoughtful of the feelings of others, had decided that it would be best
to keep their friend in ignorance of their father’s commands. “Because,”
they argued, “he has a hard enough time of it now, lying there all day
in the hospital, and if he learns that our father has put a stop to our
friendship with him, it may make him worse, and it will certainly not
make him any happier than he is.”
Bruce, of course, knew nothing about this, but imagined that the
children would come to see him or write him again at the first
opportunity. As he grew better he found himself taking an interest in
the events of the ward in which he lay, and it was not long before he
had made the acquaintance of a few of the patients who were well enough
to walk about and gossip with the occupants of the different beds. Most
of the people in the casualty ward were working men who had met with
accidents, and he noticed to his surprise that some of them seemed in no
hurry to get well, and always limped in the most grievous fashion when
any of the doctors were about.
It was Skinny the Swiper who explained this phenomenon to him by
remarking that these invalids lived better in the hospital than they did
at home and at much less expense, and were therefore perfectly willing
to stay there all winter and board at the expense of the city without
doing any hard work.
There were other men, however, who took their confinement much to heart
and had no anxiety save to get out again and go to work for their wives
and families. Bruce noticed, also, that the most intelligent men about
him always yielded to the wishes of the physicians, took the medicines
that were given them, and reposed faith in the wisdom of the medical
practitioners, while the more ignorant ones did not hesitate to affirm
that the doctors did not know their business, and that they themselves
were capable of determining what medicine they should take and how their
wounds should be treated. Having very little to do but lie on his back,
and notice what went on about him, the boy acquired no small knowledge
of human life and nature by his observations in the hospital ward.
As to Skinny the Swiper, he proved an uncomplaining patient and,
although rather taciturn from force of habit, was at times very
entertaining in his accounts of life in what he called “de Fort’ ward”
where he lived, and his comments on the people about him.
It was Skinny who awakened a burst of laughter one morning by suddenly
calling out to one of the patients who had no desire to leave the
hospital and return to his work, “Cheese it, Welch, you’re limpin’ on de
wrong leg this morning! De doctor’ll drop to yer.” And it was Skinny who
learned to imitate the voices of the other men and would often break the
silence of the early night with his monkey-like drollery. He regarded
Bruce as his preserver, and although he said but little in token of his
gratitude, the other soon began to feel that he could rely upon the
tough little news boy to render him any service that he might ask of
him. And as day succeeded day, he carefully studied the character of his
new friend, in order to determine whether it would be safe to trust him
with the secret which as yet he had shared with no one but Laura. Then
he remembered his promise to the young girl and determined that no
matter what might happen he would say nothing without first obtaining
her permission.
At last the day came when the house surgeon, pausing in front of the
boys’ beds, remarked: “Well, you two young men seem to be doing quite
nicely, so I think you can get ready to leave here at the end of the
week.” By this time both boys had progressed so far that they were able
to walk about the ward and eat their meals in the dining room instead of
having them brought to their bedside. They were not strong by any means,
but it was no longer necessary for them to remain in the hospital and
their beds were needed for other patients. Bruce was delighted at the
prospect of going and instantly wrote to Chief Trask to tell him the
news. But Skinny heard the doctor’s words with passive indifference and
did not seem to care much whether he went or stayed.
“Where are you going to when you leave here?” said Bruce to his
companion as he folded up his letter and addressed the envelope.
“Dunno,” was the laconic reply.
Bruce paused in his work and looked at the other with surprise. “Do you
mean to tell me that you haven’t any place to go to after you leave
here?” he demanded.
“No place in partick’lar,” answered Skinny. “Mebbe I’ll go down to der
Newsboy’s Home an’ brace de boss for a week’s lodgins, an’ a couple of
dimes fer ter buy extrys wid.”
The boy announced his intentions in a matter-of-fact way that showed
plainly what his manner of life had been, but Bruce was amazed to think
that anyone could leave a sick bed and go out without friends to face
the world as coolly and calmly as if he were going to a comfortable
home. All this time the boys had been sitting in extension chairs beside
their beds and when Bruce had sealed his letter he went out to the
closet in which his clothes and a few things that Chief Trask had sent
him were kept, took from an inside vest pocket his pocket-book and found
that it contained just eight dollars and forty-four cents. Taking
exactly half of his fortune, he went back to where Skinny was seated and
placed it in his lap.
“There,” he remarked, “that’s just half my pile, Skinny, and perhaps the
time will come when I shall want you to divide your pile with me.”
Skinny looked at the money in his lap and then picked it up, carefully
counted it, and rung one of the silver dollars with his teeth as if in
doubt of its being genuine. Then he fixed his keen little blue eyes on
Bruce and seemed to be trying to find some ulterior motive for his
generosity. It was seldom, indeed, that anyone had reposed confidence in
Skinny to the extent of lending him nearly five dollars, and he could
not understand why anyone should do such a thing unless he had some
object to gain. But his scrutiny of the boy’s clear, honest face failed
to reveal to him any secret or sinister design, and so, after a moment’s
hesitation, he said cautiously “Is dis on de level?”
“That’s all right,” remarked Bruce, who had winced perceptibly under the
boy’s squirrel like gaze, “You’re welcome to that as long as you choose
to keep it.”
“Say, boss,” continued Skinny after another pause, during which he
carefully thumbed over his suddenly acquired wealth, “dat’s de white
ting ter do, and I’ll hump meself when I gets well to pay it off.”
Bruce had winced under the boy’s sharp look because he felt that he
suspected him of some ulterior motive, and he knew that he had an
ulterior motive, which was to place Skinny under still further
obligations to him in order that he might be depended upon to aid him in
his search for the man who had once known his father. Never since the
morning when the newsboy recognized Laura Van Kuren had Bruce referred
in any way to the mysterious scarred and bearded stranger by whom the
boy had been employed. He did not wish to exhibit any interest in him.
The time would come for that, he said to himself, when he had left the
hospital, and it was with this object in view that he had devoted a
great deal of his time during his convalescence to cultivating an
intimacy with Skinny and deepening in the heart of that young vagabond
the feelings of gratitude and regard which he already felt for the
gallant young fire laddie who had carried him from the burning building.
It was Saturday morning when the boys said good-bye to Miss Ingraham and
their fellow patients in the casualty ward, and went out once more into
the open street. Together they trudged along Fifteenth Street to
Broadway where Bruce took a car for the quarters, not feeling strong
enough to walk any further, and Skinny kept on toward Third Avenue,
intending to go down to the Newsboys’ Home. Just before they parted,
Skinny surprised his friend by saying in a careless way, “Boss, you
reck’lect that party I was speakin’ of as sent me on de errands? Well, I
kin fin’ him any time yer want him. Dat’s all.” Then he nodded his head
and slouched across the street, a grotesque, ragged figure, while Bruce
climbed into the horse-car and wondered how on earth the boy could ever
have discovered that he felt any interest whatever in the man of whom
they had spoken but once. But Bruce did not know how contact with the
rough side of city life sharpens the senses of the young, nor did he
know that, during those long days in the hospital ward, he had been very
closely watched and studied by the little vagabond beside him.