Mr. Van Kuren arose at a very early hour the next morning and came down
stairs to the dining room with the intention of taking a hasty breakfast
and departing at once for his office. But despite the unseasonable hour
his host was there before him, looking so pale and worn that his guest
inquired anxiously if he had passed a sleepless night or if anything
unusual had happened to disturb him.
“My dear Horace,” said Mr. Dexter with great earnestness, “I hardly
slept at all last night, for not only have I been completely upset by
these matters which we have already discussed, but this morning about
two o’clock I noticed a bright glare on the southern skies which soon
assumed such proportions that I knew there must be a very large fire
somewhere in the heart of the city. As a general thing fires do not
cause me any uneasiness but what could I think of last night except that
hotel in which your daughter was sleeping, with none of her own flesh
and blood near her? For fully three hours I sat watching the light of
that conflagration, which must have been a very large one, and I could
think of nothing but Laura. I got up early hoping to find something in
the newspapers that might rid my mind of worry; but the servant tells me
that the snow has fallen so as to make the streets almost impassable,
and the boy who supplies us has not yet appeared. If he does not come
very soon I shall send my own man to the nearest news-stand for I assure
you that I have been very much worried.”
“My dear old friend,” said Mr. Van Kuren gently as he placed his hand
affectionately on the old gentleman’s shoulder, “you really must not
allow such trivial things to worry you and keep you awake. I went to
that hotel principally because I was assured that it was thoroughly
fire-proof and you may depend upon it that that fire last night was
miles further down town. However, you may rest assured that if anything
alarming has happened, I will send you word at once. But whatever you
do,” he added, “be sure you say nothing of this to my sister. The shock
or the anxiety might prove a very serious matter to her in her present
condition of health.”
“I have another request to make of you, Horace,” continued Mr. Dexter
speaking with even more earnestness than before, “and that is that you
go to the engine house in which that young man Decker is employed and
learn from his own lips all that you can in regard to his family. If you
find that what Sam hinted at is true, bring him here without a moment’s
delay. I am a very old man, Horace, but this is a matter which must be
settled at once for I can bear the suspense no longer.”
Mr. Van Kuren readily gave the required promise, and having eaten a
light breakfast he entered Mr. Dexter’s carriage and was driven off in
the direction of the Elevated railroad. Purchasing a copy of a morning
paper, he entered the car and settled himself in a corner to read the
news. As he unfolded the damp sheet his eye fell upon a headline in
heavy black type which told him at once that something exciting had
occurred. The next moment the color left his cheeks and his hands began
to shake so that he could scarcely read. The great hotel in which he and
his family had lodged had been destroyed by fire and a number of the
guests were known to have perished. There was no list of the missing or
of the saved, and he realized that it would be impossible for him to
learn any further details without going himself to the scene of the
disaster. He read the short description of the fire through, and then
the paper slipped from his hands and fell unheeded to the floor of the
car, while he sat literally stunned by what he had just learned and
apparently unable to collect his thoughts or make up his mind what to
do.
Other people about him, who had noticed the bright glare on the sky the
night before were talking about the fire, and discussing the probable
number of the missing. It was this that roused him from his stupor and
he sat bolt upright in his seat, picked up the paper again and once more
carefully perused the account of the conflagration. He was still fully
two miles from 42d St., the station nearest to the great heap of
cinders, bricks and ashes in which perhaps his own daughter was buried.
The train seemed to crawl at a snail’s pace and it was in vain that he
tried to divert his attention, from what he had just learned by reading
the other portions of the newspaper. Again and again his eyes would turn
to the awful black headline on the front page, and finally he threw the
sheet to the floor in despair, folded his arms across his breast and
endeavored to think of something else. But there was one figure which he
could not blot out of his mind. It was that of his daughter standing by
an open window with clothes and hair ablaze and screaming for some one
to save her.
At last the train stopped at 42d St., and the distracted father flew
down the steps to the sidewalk, called to a hack-man who was standing
near and bade him drive him at full speed to the scene of the fire. The
snow was still falling when he reached his destination and a large crowd
had gathered to view the smoking ruin. A number of firemen were there
and there were still two or three streams in operation. Three well
dressed gentlemen were standing on the corner of the street watching
everything attentively, and as Mr. Van Kuren alighted from his cab he
recognized one of the group as Mr. Peter Dewsnap, an old acquaintance of
his.
“Big fire this,” exclaimed Mr. Dewsnap as the other approached him, “and
I’m afraid there are a good many bodies down there under that heap of
bricks and mortar. There, they’re bringing a body out now,” he went on
eagerly, never thinking what his words meant to the man whose only
daughter had been a guest in the hotel the night before. The crowd
parted to make way for four men who bore between them a rough stretcher
on which lay a shapeless object covered with a blanket.
“What’s that?” demanded Mr. Van Kuren, hoarsely, as he placed a
detaining hand on the arm of one of the bearers, “a man, or a woman, or
a child?”
“Man, sir,” was the answer.
“Thank God for that!” exclaimed the father so fervently that Mr. Dewsnap
glanced at him with a sudden apprehension and exclaimed, “Did you have
any friends or relatives in the hotel?”
“My daughter slept here last night, and I do not know whether she is
alive or not this morning,” was the reply uttered in tones of
heart-rending despair that had an instant effect upon Mr. Dewsnap’s
kindly and sympathetic heart.
“What!” he exclaimed, “your daughter in that hotel and you do not know
whether she was saved or not? Was she a young lady or merely a child?”
“Between the two,” replied Mr. Van Kuren sadly.
“I wonder if it could have been that young girl who was saved by that
young friend of yours,” exclaimed one of Mr. Dewsnap’s companions, none
other than the honorable Mr. Rupert Doubter who has already been
introduced to our readers, and was now an enthusiastic admirer of and
believer in the New York Fire Department.
“Very likely, indeed,” cried Mr. Dewsnap excitedly. “She seemed to be a
young girl of about fifteen, and she was lowered from a window in the
fifth floor by a young friend of mine and very proud we all are of him,
too. The child had been left in the care of her governess, who slept in
an adjoining room and was found lying on the floor unconscious from the
effect of the smoke. She had probably started to go into the next room
and awaken her young charge and had fallen down, overcome by the dense
clouds of smoke. Both she and the young girl were taken to that hotel on
the next block and are probably there now, but really, if you could have
seen the way that boy—” but Mr. Van Kuren was already on his way to the
hotel and out of hearing.
Ten minutes later he was standing in one of the rooms in the hotel with
his child clasped tightly in his arms and she was saying to him: “Oh,
papa, if it had not been for him I would have been burnt up. I had just
given myself up for lost when he came up the ladder, put a rope around
my waist and let me down. I cannot bear to think of the way we have
treated him and especially the way I treated him when I met him in the
street the other day.” And Laura hid her head in her father’s breast and
sobbed aloud.
“Treated whom? My darling,” demanded Mr. Van Kuren. “Who was it that
saved you?”
“Why, Bruce Decker, papa. Who else could it be?”