Bigger crowds ran to fires, big or little, in those days than now. The
blaze which had well-nigh destroyed an old frame stable in Nineteenth
Street that rainy Saturday afternoon before a single fire company
reached the scene, and that drew to the spot in the course of half an
hour at least twenty companies,--engine, hose, or hook and
ladder,--would be handled now by one compact little battalion with
one-tenth the loss, with no more than forty men, without an unnecessary
sound, and in much less than half the time. Although aided by
sympathizing hands, Shorty had barely time to get Snipe on his shaky
legs and in the lee of a sheltering tree-box when another company came
tearing around from upper Fourth Avenue,--their old friends of Zephyr
Hose,--close followed by Engine 28, and Shorty lifted up his voice in a
yodel that instantly brought two or three panting young fellows to his
side,--big boys who had run with their pet company the half-mile from
Twenty-eighth Street. Instant suspicion, mingled with wrath, gleamed in
their eyes at sight of Snipe's pale face and bleeding temple. "Yes, the
Hulker fellows!" sobbed Shorty, now half mad with indignation and
excitement. "I saw just the two that did it. One of them belongs to the
first nine of the Metamoras,--the juniors,--and had a row with Snipe the
day of the match. Briggs was with them. Wait till we tend to Snipe, then
we can fix him."
The youngster's heart was beating hard and savagely, for the outrage was
brutal. There had been angry words between the rival clubs, the Uncas
and the Metamora, the day of their great game, and hosts of other
juniors had gathered about the wrangling nines, not utterly displeased
at the idea of a falling out between two of the strongest and, as
juniors went in those days, "swellest" organizations on the list. Then,
as luck would have it, several of the older boys of both clubs were
devoted followers, even "runners," of two rival hose companies, the
Uncas almost to a man pinning their fortunes on the white Zephyr, whose
home was but three short blocks above Pop's school, and one of whose
active members, the son of a Fifth Avenue millionaire, was the biggest
and oldest--and stupidest--of Pop's pupils, though not in the classical
department. The Metamoras, in like manner, swore by the swell hose
company of that name, whose carriage was housed on Fifth Avenue itself,
diagonally over across the way from the impressively dignified and
aristocratic brownstone mansion of the Union Club. And what Pop's boys,
the First Latin, at least, were well-nigh a unit in condemning was that
just two of their own number, residents of that immediate neighborhood,
were known to be in league with the Metamora crowd, even to the extent,
it was whispered, of secretly associating with the Hulkers, and by the
Hulkers was meant a little clique led by two brothers of that name, big,
burly young fellows of nineteen and eighteen respectively, sons of a
wealthy widow, who let them run the road to ruin and bountifully paid
their way,--two young scapegraces who were not only vicious and
well-nigh worthless themselves, but were leading astray half a score of
others who were fit for better things. No wonder the hearts of the Uncas
were hot against them.
Into the area doorway of a neighboring dwelling, with faces of gloom,
they had led their wounded comrade. Sympathizing, kind-hearted women
bathed his forehead and smoothly bandaged it, even as the uproar without
increased, and companies from far down-town kept pouring into the
crowded street. By this time half a dozen streams were on the blaze and
the black smoke had turned to white steam, but still they came, Gulick
and Guardian, hose and engine, from under the Jefferson tower, and natty
55 Hose,--the "Harry Howards,"--from away over near the Christopher
ferry, and their swell rivals of 38, from Amity Street, close at the
heels of Niagara 4, with her handsome Philadelphia double-deck engine,
and "3 Truck," from Fireman's Hall, in Mercer Street, and another big
double-decker, 11, from away down below the Metropolitan Hotel, raced
every inch of the mile run up Broadway by her east side rival, Marion 9.
Fancy the hundreds of shouting, struggling, excited men blocking
Lexington Avenue and Eighteenth Street for two hundred yards in every
direction from what we would call to-day a "two-hundred-dollar fire,"
and you can form an idea of the waste of time, money, material, and
energy, the access of uproar, confusion, and, ofttimes, rowdyism, that
accompanied an alarm in the days before the war. Remember that all this,
too, might result from the mere burning out of a chimney or the ignition
of a curtain in a garret window, and you can readily see why tax-payers,
thinking men, and insurance companies finally decided that the old
volunteer department must be abolished.
But until the war came on there was nothing half so full of excitement
in the eyes of young New York, and Pop's boys, many of them at least,
thought it the biggest kind of fun outside of school, where they had fun
of their own such as few other boys saw the like of.
It was inside the school, however, on the following Monday morning, that
the young faces were grave and full of import, for Snipe was there,
still bandaged and a trifle pale, and Shorty, scant of breath but full
of vim and descriptives, and time and again had he to tell the story of
the Hulkers' attack to classmates who listened with puckered brows and
compressed lips, all the while keeping an eye on two black sheep, who
followed with furtive glances Snipe and Shorty wherever they went; and
one of these two was the Pariah of the school.
The only son of a wealthy broker, Leonard Hoover at eighteen years of
age had every advantage that the social position of his parents and a
big allowance could give him, but he stood in Pop's school that saddest
of sights,--a friendless boy. Always immaculately dressed and booted and
gloved, he was a dullard in studies, a braggart in everything, and a
success in nothing. For healthful sports and pastimes he had no use
whatever. Books were his bane, and at eighteen he knew less of Latin
than boys in the fourth form, but Pop had carried him along for years,
dropping him back thrice, it was said in school traditions, until at
last he had to float him with the First Latin, where he sat week after
week at the foot of the class. It was said that between the revered
rector of the school and the astute head of the firm of Hoover, Hope &
Co. a strong friendship existed, but whatever regard "the Doctor"
entertained for the father he denied the son. Long years of observation
of the young fellow's character had convinced this shrewd student of boy
nature that here was a case well-nigh without redeeming feature. Lazy,
shifty, lying, malevolent, without a good word or kind thought for a
human being, without a spark of gratitude to the father who had pulled
him through one disgrace after another, and who strove to buy him a way
through life, young Hoover was, if truth were confessed, about as
abhorrent to the Doctor as he was obnoxious to the school. A plague, a
bully, a tyrant to the little fellows in the lower classes, a cheat and
coward among his fellows, filled with mean jealousy of the lads who year
after year stepped over his head to the upper forms, stingy though his
pockets were lined with silver, sneaking, for he was never known to do
or say a straightforward thing in his life, it had come to pass by the
time he spent his sixth year with Pop that Hoover was the school-boy
synonym for everything disreputable or mean. And, as though the
Providence that had endowed him through his father with everything that
wealth and influence could command was yet determined to strike a
balance somewhere, "Len" Hoover had been given a face almost as
repellent as his nature. His little black eyes were glittering and
beady, which was bad enough, but in addition were so sadly and
singularly crossed that the effect was to distort their true dimensions
and make the right optic appear larger and fuller than the left, which
at times was almost lost sight of,--a strange defect that even Pop had
had the weakness to satirize, and, well knowing that Hoover would never
understand the meaning, had in a moment of unusual exasperation referred
to him as "Cyclops," or Polyphemus, a name that would have held among
the boys had it not been too classical and not sufficiently
contemptuous. An ugly red birth-mark added to his facial deformity, but
what more than anything else gave it its baleful expression was the
sneer that never seemed to leave his mouth. The grin that sometimes,
when tormenting a little boy, distended that feature could never by any
possibility be mistaken for a smile. Hoover's white, slender, shapely
hands were twitching and tremulous. New boys, who perhaps had to shake
hands with him, said they were cold and clammy. He walked in his
high-heeled boots in a rickety way that baffled imitation. He never ran.
He never took part in any sport or game. He never subscribed a cent to
any school enterprise,--base ball, cricket, excursion, or debate. He
never even took part in the customary Christmas gifts to the teachers,
for in the days of this class of Snipe's and Shorty's and others whose
scholarly attainments should have won them first mention, there were
some beloved men whom even mischief-loving lads delighted to remember in
that way. One Christmas-tide Hoover had appeared just before the holiday
break-up, followed by a servant in dark livery, a thing seldom seen
before the war, and that servant solemnly bore half a dozen packages of
which Hoover relieved him one at a time, and personally took to the desk
of the master in each one of the five rooms, left it there without a
word of explanation, but with an indescribable grin, bade the servant
hand the sixth to the open-mouthed janitor, and disappeared. A
perplexed lot were Pop's several assistants when school closed that
afternoon. John, the janitor aforesaid, declared they held an informal
caucus in the senior master's room (Othello was the pet name borne at
the time by this gifted teacher and later distinguished divine), and
that three of the number, who had smilingly and gracefully thanked the
boys for the hearty little tribute of remembrance and good will with
which the spokesman of the class had wished each master a Merry
Christmas, declared they could accept no individual gift from any pupil,
much less Hoover, and that he, John, believed the packages had been
returned unopened.
And this was the state of feeling at the old school towards its oldest
scholar, in point of years spent beneath its roof, on the bleak November
morning following Snipe's and Shorty's disastrous run to the fire, when
at twelve o'clock the First Latin came tumbling down-stairs for recess.
Ordinarily they went with a rush, bounding and jostling and playing all
manner of pranks on each other and making no end of noise, then racing
for doughnuts at Duncan's, two blocks away. But this time there was
gravity and deliberation, an ominous silence that was sufficient in
itself to tell the head-master, even before he noted the fact that
Hoover was lingering in the school-room instead of sneaking off _solus_
for a smoke at a neighboring stable, that something of an unusual nature
was in the wind.
"Why don't you go out to recess, Hoover?" said he, shortly. "If any lad
needs fresh air, it's you."
No answer for a moment. Hoover stood shuffling uneasily at the long
window looking out on Fourth Avenue, every now and then peering up and
down the street.
Impatiently the master repeated his question, and then, sullen and
scowling, Hoover answered,--
"I can have trouble enough--here."
"What do you mean?" asked Othello.
"They're layin' for me,--at least Snipe is."
"By Snipe you mean Lawton, I suppose. What's the trouble between you?"
and the master sat grimly eying the ill-favored fellow.
"It's not a thing--I want to speak of," was the answer. "He knows that I
know things that he can't afford to have get out,--that's all." Then,
turning suddenly, "Mr. Halsey," said he, "there's things going on in
this school the Doctor ought to know. I can't tell him or tell you, but
you--you ask John where Joy's watch went and how it got there."
The master started, and his dark face grew darker still. That business
of Joy's watch had been the scandal of the school all October. Joy was
one of the leaders of the First Latin, a member of one of the oldest
families of Gotham, and this watch was a beautiful and costly thing that
had been given him on his birthday the year before. One hot Friday noon
when the school went out to recess, Joy came running back up the stairs
from the street below and began searching eagerly about the bookcases at
the back of the long school-room. A pale-faced junior master sat mopping
the sweat from his forehead, for the First Latin had executed its famous
charge but two minutes before, and he had striven in vain to quell the
tumult.
"What's the matter, Joy?" he asked. "I _beg_ pardon. _Mr._ Joy, I should
say. I wonder that I am so forgetful as to speak to a young gentleman in
the First Latin as I would to boys in the other forms in the school."
At other times when the weakling who had so spoken gave voice to this
sentiment it was the conventional thing for the First Latin to gaze
stolidly at him and, by way of acknowledgment of the sentiment, to utter
a low, moaning sound, like that of a beast in pain, gradually rising to
a dull roar, then dying away to a murmur again, accentuated occasionally
here and there by deep gutturals, "Hoi! hoi! hoi!" and in this
inarticulate chorus was Joy ever the fugleman. But now, with troubled
eyes, he stared at the master.
"My watch is gone, sir!"
"Gone, Mr. Joy? You terrify me!" said Mr. Meeker, whose habit it was to
use exaggerated speech. "When--and how?"
"While we were--having that scrimmage just now," answered Joy, searching
about the floor and the benches. "I had it--looked at it--not two
minutes before the bell struck. You may remember, sir, you bade me put
it up."
"I do remember. And when did you first miss it?"
"Before we got across Twenty-fifth Street, sir."
By this time, with sympathetic faces, back came Carey and Doremus and
Bertram and others of the First Latin, and John, the janitor, stood at
the door and looked on with puzzled eyes. It was not good for him that
valuables should be lost at any time about the school. All four young
fellows searched, but there was no sign. From that day to this Joy had
seen no more of his beautiful watch. Detectives had sought in vain.
Pawn-shops were ransacked. The Doctor had offered reward and Mr. Meeker,
the master, his resignation, but neither was accepted.
And now Hoover, the uncanny, had declared he had information. It was
still over an hour before the Doctor could be expected down from his
morning's work at Columbia. The head-master felt his fingers tingling
and his pulses quicken. He himself had had a theory--a most unpleasant
one--with regard to the disappearance of that precious watch. He knew
his face was paling as he rose and backed the downcast, slant-eyed youth
against the window-casing.
"Hoover," said he, "I've known you seven years, and will have no
dodging. Tell me what you know."
"I--I--don't _know_ anything, sir," was the answer, "but you ask John.
He does."
"Stay where you are!" cried the master, as he stepped to his desk and
banged the gong-bell that stood thereon. A lumbering tread was heard on
the stairway, and a red-faced, shock-headed young man came clumsily into
the room. Mr. Halsey collared him without ado and shoved him up
alongside Hoover. He had scant reverence for family rank and name, had
Halsey. In his eyes hulking John and sullen Hoover were about on a par,
with any appreciable odds in favor of the janitor.
"Hoover tells me you know where Joy's watch went and who took it. Out
with the story!" demanded he.
"I d-don't," mumbled John, in alarm and distress. "I--I only said
that--there was more'n one could tell where it went." And then, to Mr.
Halsey's amaze and disgust, the janitor fairly burst into tears. For two
or three minutes his uncouth shape was shaken by sobs of unmistakable
distress. Halsey vainly tried to check him, and angrily demanded
explanation of this womanish conduct. At last John seemed about to
speak, but at that moment Hoover, with shaking hand, grabbed the
master's arm and muttered, "Mr. Halsey,--not now!"
Following the frightened glance of those shifting eyes, Halsey whirled
and looked towards the stairs. Then, with almost indignant question
quivering on his lips, turned angrily on the pair. With a queer
expression on his white and bandaged face, Snipe Lawton stood gazing at
them from the doorway.