About one hour after the brief but violent sidewalk encounter already
described, a small and ragged street boy entered Chief Trask’s quarters,
cast a searching eye over the group of men who were assembled there, and
then walked quickly over to Bruce Decker, who was at work, can in hand,
oiling the wheels of the chief’s wagon.
“Is dis your name, boss?” he inquired, as he handed to him a letter,
enclosed in a dirty yellow envelope, on which was written, in sprawling,
uncertain characters, the words:
BRUCE DECKER,
In Care of Hook and Ladder.
The young fire lad opened the message, and deciphered the following
sentence:
“Cum down and meet me at Lyonse’s, and eat supper to-night. Wot time
will you come?
SKINNY.”
“Dere’s an answer ter dat,” said the boy, as Bruce finished reading the
note.
[Illustration: “Dere’s an answer ter dat,” said the boy.—_Page 286._]
“Very well, then, tell him I’ll be with him at six,” he said, and the
young ragamuffin departed, while Bruce resumed his work on the chief’s
wagon, amazed and delighted to get an answer in such a short time to his
letter. The afternoon seemed to pass very slowly, and at half-past five
he obtained the chief’s permission to go out for a little while, and
bent his steps immediately to Lyons’s, a restaurant on the Bowery, which
Skinny visited once in a while when he was prosperous enough to treat
himself to a substantial meal.
Bruce found the little newsboy standing in front of the open door.
“I got your note yesterday, an’ here I am,” was Skinny’s greeting, as
the two boys shook hands. “I cum right on de minute I knowed I wuz
wanted here,” he added, “an’ what’s more I’ve got dat mun’ yer let me
have de time we cum outter de hospital,” and he handed four dollars and
twenty-two cents to his companion, with a distinct look of pride.
It pleased Bruce very much to feel that his humble little friend was so
honest and so willing to do his bidding, and he said so in a hearty,
straightforward manner that Skinny readily understood. Then they entered
the restaurant, selected a quiet table, in an obscure corner, and sat
down to a nice supper, Skinny acting as host for perhaps the first time
in his life. And as they ate they talked, the newsboy describing his
experiences on the farm, and Bruce plying him with questions about the
different country people he knew.
Never before in his life had Bruce felt so much like a character in a
story book as he did now, and even Skinny remarked that the situation
reminded him of a similar one in his favorite romance “Shorty, the Boy
Detective.”
It was the first time that the newsboy had ever entertained anyone at a
dinner as sumptuous as the one which he now offered to the young lad
whom he admired and liked as he liked and admired no other human being.
He recommended all the most expensive dishes on the bill of fare,
ordered the waiter around in a way that brought a broad smile to that
functionary’s face, and “showed off” in so many other ways that Bruce,
who was at heart a modest and unobtrusive young chap, finally felt
constrained to ask him to attract less attention, and conduct himself
with more decorum.
The fact was, that Skinny “felt his oats,” as they say in the country.
He was very proud to be called in as a sort of advisory counsel in such
a delicate and important matter as the one which now occupied Bruce’s
mind, and he was ready enough to give his friend the full benefit of his
long experience in the city and really remarkable knowledge of the
habits of crooked, crafty and dangerous people. Young as he was, the
newsboy had long since learned the great lesson of eternal vigilance,
and he knew well enough that the man whom he called “Scar-faced Charlie”
was not one in whom implicit confidence should be reposed.
He listened attentively as Bruce described his visits to the Dexter
mansion, and then said to him “Wot’s de matter wid bracin’ him in his
Eldridge Street joint?”
“But I don’t know where it is,” replied the other.
“Come along wid me, an’ I’ll show yer,” said Skinny quickly, and, having
paid the check and handed the amazed waiter a quarter, coupling his gift
with an admonition to “hustle lively” the next time he had any visitors
of distinction to wait on, the newsboy led the way down the Bowery which
was by this time crowded with people and brilliantly lighted, to Grand
Street, and then in an easterly direction to a corner from which he
could see the building in which Mr. Korwein had his office.
But beyond this corner Skinny positively refused to go. Plucky as he
was, and heedless of results, he had a profound fear for the big strong
man out of whose stern grasp he had wriggled that very day.
“You go over dere, an’ brace de old bloke. I’ll wait here. He’s dere,
fer de lights in the windy,” he said. And Bruce was forced to make his
visit alone.
Never before in his life had he gone about any task that so tried his
nerves as this one, and it was fully five minutes before he could make
up his mind to open the door and enter the money-lender’s dingy office.
At last, however, his will conquered his fears, and he marched boldly up
the steps, opened the door and closed it behind him with a sharp bang.
Mr. Korwein was standing behind the tall desk adding up a long column of
figures in his ledger. He looked up as the boy entered and said rather
roughly: “Well, what can I do for you this evening?”
“I’m not quite sure what you can do for me,” rejoined his visitor,
looking him carefully in the face and speaking in a tone which arrested
the tall man’s attention at once. “I heard that you are making some
rather particular inquiries about me, and I thought if there was
anything you wanted to know, I might be able to tell you myself.”
“Inquiries about you!” repeated Mr. Korwein, dropping his pen and coming
out from behind the tall desk, in order to get a good view of his
visitor, “why, who are you?”
“My name is Bruce Decker, and I am the son of Frank Decker, the
fireman,” was the boy’s answer.
Not much in the words he uttered nor in the tone of his voice, one would
say. But enough to drive every particle of color from the money-lender’s
face and to cause him to start back with a half suppressed oath on his
lips, and an expression in which rage, disappointment and astonishment
seemed to be blended in equal parts.
“Frank Decker’s son! He never had any son!” he exclaimed.
“Oh yes he did,” replied Bruce “and I am that son. I heard you were
looking for me. Now that I am here, tell me what you want.”
“And so you are really Frank’s boy are you,” said the money-lender,
speaking in a more conciliatory tone and evidently trying to recover his
equanimity, “well I am glad to see you, glad to see you. I’ve been
looking for you because, because—to tell the truth, there is a little
money coming to you, not much my boy, not very much, but something. It
was left to your father, and by his death goes to his next of kin. If
you are really his son, you are entitled to it. But I must have proof
you know, proof, before I can pay it over. Where do you live, my boy?
Let me know your address and I will look you up and see that you receive
every cent that is your due.” He wiped the perspiration from his face as
he entered with much care in a memorandum book the address which Bruce
gave him, which was that of Chief Trask’s house and not of the boy’s.
And then, declaring that he could say no more until he received absolute
proof that Bruce was what he represented himself to be, he opened the
door and ushered his visitor out into the street.
Bruce stood for a moment on the sidewalk, utterly bewildered by what he
had heard.
“Well, did yer brace de bloke?” demanded Skinny appearing suddenly in
front of him.
“Yes,” answered Bruce “and he told me he had some money to pay me that
was left to my father.”
“Hully gee,” exclaimed the boy. “Better look out though dat yer get all
wot’s comin’ to yer. Dat Scar-faced Charlie don’t never pay bills in
full.”