Meantime things had not been going on smoothly at the home of the Van
Kuren children. Mr. Van Kuren, although a devoted and careful father,
was so much engrossed in his business that he had comparatively little
time to devote to his children, and since the death of their mother,
their education had necessarily been left largely in the hands of
tutors, governesses and instructors of all sorts. The discovery that the
young boy from the fire department whom he had been inclined to regard
with so much favor had taken advantage of his intimacy with the children
to conduct a clandestine correspondence with the daughter of the house,
annoyed Mr. Van Kuren excessively, and he determined to take immediate
steps to prevent any repetition of the offense or continuance of the
friendship. It was chiefly for this purpose that he finally made up his
mind to do what he had long contemplated, and one morning he summoned
both children to his study, and threw them into a fever of excitement
and delight by bidding them prepare at once for a trip to Europe.
“But must we start to-morrow?” demanded Laura. “Why, I never can get
ready in the world.”
“Very well,” replied her father with a smile. “If you’re not ready, you
may remain at home while Harry, your aunt, Mr. Reed and I will take the
trip. Shall I send word to the steamship office that we only need
tickets for four?”
“No, no, no,” cried Laura, jumping up and down excitedly, “don’t do
that. I’ll go right away now and get ready. I’d die if I had to stay
home while you and Harry went off.”
Then both children set about the work of packing up their things and of
writing one or two good-bye letters to the friends whom they where
leaving behind.
“Did papa say how long we were to remain away?” asked Laura as she
paused in the middle of a letter.
“No,” answered her brother carelessly, “but probably quite a while. I
don’t care how long we stay. It will be lots of fun over there, and ever
so much better than learning stupid lessons and staying in one place all
the time. I guess I’ll write a letter to Bruce and tell him that we’re
going to Europe to-morrow. I won’t say anything about papa getting hold
of that letter, and when we come back maybe we’ll be allowed to ask him
up here again.”
So Bruce learned the next day, at the very moment when the steamer was
leaving her dock, that his friends had sailed away across the ocean and
did not know when they would see him again. Europe seemed so far away to
the young boy, and a trip across the ocean such a formidable
undertaking, that it seemed to him that he had said good-bye to them
forever, and that if they did come back at all, they would never be the
same.
Now Mr. Van Kuren had purposely said nothing to his children about the
probable length of their stay, but he had really determined to remain
with them abroad for at least a year, with the intention of carrying on
their education, at the same time giving them the advantages of travel
in foreign lands. Once across the ocean, he was satisfied that his
daughter would forget the young fireman for whom he feared she cherished
a childish liking, and so, as soon as the steamer had passed Sandy Hook,
he dismissed Bruce altogether from his mind, and busied himself with
thoughts of the days that lay before him.
Harry’s letter to his young friend proved a genuine shock, and for fully
twenty-four hours after receiving it, Bruce walked about the quarters,
or sat in his accustomed seat in the corner, in a condition of dejection
that did not escape the notice of Tom Brophy or the chief, for they both
spoke of it, and both of them hoped that after distinguishing himself as
he had, the boy would not allow himself to fall back into the state of
discontent and indifference that had previously annoyed them.
At the end of twenty-four hours, however, the boy suddenly regained his
good spirits. During his period of gloom he had argued with and
succeeded in convincing himself that, after all, the departure of his
two cherished friends for Europe was the very best thing that could have
happened to him. “It made me sore,” he acknowledged to himself, “to go
up there to their big house and see all the nice things they had, and
then come back to my work again. If a fellow has got to work for his
living as I have, he’d much better keep away from rich folks, and not
have any friends who can spend a dollar where he can spend a cent.
Everybody says I’ve made a good beginning, and now I am going to keep
right on. If I have any spare time, I’ll spend it with that Skinny,
working up what Laura calls the mystery of my birth.”
He smiled as he thought of the deep interest with which she used to
discuss his affairs, and then a shade of sadness crossed his face as he
remembered that she was at that moment out on the ocean, and that he
might never see her again. Then his good sense acted as a tonic to his
resolution, and he went about his duties determined that when she did
return, she would find him changed and improved almost beyond
recognition.
His confinement in the hospital had left him in no condition to do a
full day’s work, and so at the chief’s suggestion he spent a good part
of his time out-of-doors, either walking about the streets near the
quarters, or else riding up to Central Park, and strolling about in its
pleasant paths, where he could enjoy the bright sunshine and the clear,
fresh air to his heart’s content.
It was during one of these rambles that he determined to devote some of
his leisure time, and he had a great deal of it now owing to his state
of health, to seek out his new boy friend and asking him to aid him in
his work of investigation. Bruce was by nature a deliberate,
slow-thinking boy, who seldom acted on the impulse of the moment, and
had a habit of devoting a great deal of thought to whatever he went
about. He was naturally secretive, too, and up to this time, he had made
a confidant of nobody except Laura Van Kuren; not even to Chief Trask or
Tom Brophy had he spoken a single word in regard to the important matter
which had taken up such a large share of his thoughts.
Having once made up his mind that Skinny was a boy to be depended on, he
did not start off at the very instant of his decision to seek him out,
but with characteristic reserve waited until the next morning, and then,
having obtained a leave of absence until the afternoon, started for the
lower part of the city. In front of a tall brick building, not far from
what was once Chatham Street, but is now Park Row, he paused and looked
up. It was the Newsboys’ Lodging House, and the gentleman who stood in
the doorway and asked him what he wanted, was the superintendent.
Bruce made known his errand, and the superintendent shook his head
doubtfully. “I don’t know where you’ll find that boy Skinny,” he
replied, “he turned up here some time ago with a story about having been
in the hospital, and I must say he looked as if he’d been through some
trouble or other, put up here for a while and then disappeared, and I
haven’t seen him since.”
“Well, he told the truth about being in the hospital,” rejoined the
visitor stoutly, “for I was there with him, and now I’d like to find him
for a very particular reason.”
“I guess,” replied the superintendent, “there are a good many people
would like to find him for some particular reason, but I don’t know
where he is, unless he’s selling papers around City Hall Square. I’ll
ask the other boys to-night if they know anything about him, and then if
you can drop around to-morrow, I may be able to tell you something.”
Bruce turned away dejected and distrustful. He was afraid that Skinny
would drift out of his ken. “I was foolish to let him have that money,”
he said to himself, “because he’ll never show up again for fear of being
asked for it.”