At the proper age and condition he developed the usual habit of forming
mental pictures while looking into a grate fire, and enjoyed the usual
introspective calm and comfort therein; but in him, the primordial
inheritance also found expression at an age so early that it might
have formed a part of his infant reproduction of the Stone Age. From
the time he could crawl he loved the fire with the fixed, passionate
devotion of the cat, and, like the cat, he would lie contentedly for
hours on the rug before the hearth, or, to the scandal of the cook,
remove the kitchen stove lids and scorch his face over the glowing
coals.
He seemed to possess a salamander-like immunity from its effects;
again and again he was burned, but never to the point of fear, utterly
disproving the theory that burned children dread the fire. He loved
fire, and played with it, setting the carpet of his play-room in flames
at the age of three. At five he had made a bonfire of his toys, at
seven burned the barn down, and at ten was a past master in the art of
building camp fires in the woods--fires without smoke, fires of green
wood, wet wood, and rotten wood; fires of great heat and little flame,
and fires that went out without constant attention.
In playing Indian he was a valuable comrade, and though we did not meet
until the mutations of schoolboy life brought us together in the same
class--his early history coming to me later--I found this proficiency
the one asset in George Morton's character. He was a high-strung,
nervous lad, morbid and erratic at times, cowardly except in reference
to fire, and a bully when he dared be. He even lacked the school-boy's
sense of honor, which permits stealing anything eatable, and lying for
any purpose except self-defense.
Our first meeting was momentous, determining and fixing our mutual
attitude, and our nearly common interest in a third person, who was
to strongly influence us both. I was crossing a vacant lot which was
part of his wealthy father's property when I found him tormenting a
small girl of four. He had rigged her doll to the tail of his kite,
and was laughing gleefully at her anguish as the inanimate pet soared
aloft. I claim no chivalric impulses at the time; I was bad boy of the
village--a title I had earned by my health, strength, and willingness
to fight--and here was a chance for a fight.
A short conflict ended in victory for me and a new emotion born of
the child's happy smile as the doll was restored to her arms. It was
solely paternal and protective in its nature, and had I not taken note
of the wonderful beauty of the tot it would have remained so; but the
pure little face stamped itself on my mind as an earthly picture of
the super-human, and, though it made no sexual appeal, it protected me
for years against the love affairs of boyhood and youth. She became my
goddess, and has remained so.
But I was brought to earth by the impact of a stone on my head, and the
whimpering voice of my late victim coming from a distance.
"That's my sister," he said, "and you leave her alone and mind your own
business."
My pursuit of him was fruitless, for his legs were longer than mine;
but it seemed to have aroused in him the same protective regard for his
sister as had animated me, for from that time on he never teased her,
and often left the boys to lead her away from possible annoyance from
them--and from probable contact with me. There was danger from the
latter, for on many occasions I "played hooky" to loll away the day in
the bushes, satisfied with one glimpse of the child playing near the
door. And I always returned to school bettered by the experience; for I
studied harder, realizing my seafaring father's ambition that I should
have an education, and responding to his advice that if I "_must_ be a
sailor, to be the right kind--a naval officer." He, with his blood, his
example, and his talk, had impressed upon me his love of the sea, but
instead of crawling in the hawsepipes as he had done I compromised by
winning, in a competitive examination, an appointment to Annapolis, at
the age of sixteen.
My closest competitor was George Morton, from whom I received
half-friendly hints that he would get even, and my warmest admirer
his young sister, now about ten, to whom I, in my new capacity of
prospective hero, had officially been introduced. She thought I was
going to war, and earnestly asked me to be careful and not be killed.
Morton spent two years more at school before going to college, and
in this time made good his threat to get even. He was a popular hero
many times over before I had become sure that I could hold my own
in study, and he acquired this distinction by timely use of his one
talent. In the exclusive, restricted community of wealthy families
there was little of the material from which firemen are drawn, and as
a consequence a volunteer fire company had been formed, with palatial
quarters, gorgeous uniforms, and an up-to-date equipment. Fires were so
scarce, however, that its activity had found vent in parades, dinners,
and balls, until George Morton joined it. Then, as though in response
to the presence of its lover and master, fires broke out here and
there in the manor, all of which he attended, and most of which were
extinguished by his efforts or advice. He intuitively knew the thing
to do--just where to play the stream, just when to pull down a wall.
In six months he was made foreman, and in this time had saved much
property and a few lives.
But his notable feats were performed later, and these were told me by
his sister Grace, when I had finished my second year, and George was
ready for college. My parents had died since my appointment, but I took
my vacations at home, just to meet and be near her.
"He is brave as a lion," she said, with twelve-year-old enthusiasm.
"Why, when Mr. Mills' big house burned down he went up a ladder to the
third story, which hadn't caught fire yet, and went all through the
building until he had found and brought out three servants who were
unconscious from the smoke. Then he even went back for the dog, and
saved him."
"That was good work," I responded, rather vacantly.
"And then," she went on, "when the big, new schoolhouse caught fire he
happened to be right there to notice it from the outside, and after
getting all the children out safely he entered the building at the head
of his fire company and extinguished the fire. He went right into the
blazing basement with a fire extinguisher and put it out himself. None
of the rest wanted to go in, either."
I grunted my approval. I had never liked him, but evidently had
misjudged him. The child continued:
"But the bravest thing he did was when the seminary caught fire at
night. He was asleep when the alarm sounded and he rushed to the
fire half clothed. The whole lower story was afire, and above were
the dormitories with over a hundred girls fast asleep; but he went
up, right through the flames coming from the windows, and wakened
everybody. Then he pulled up ladders with a rope, and helped the girls
down. He was the last to come out, and just in time, for the walls fell
in a moment later."
"You have a fine brother," I responded, joining the girl in her
enthusiasm, and willing to do him justice. "I never thought he had
courage at all, but he certainly has proved it."
"Oh, he has," she rejoined. And then, with sisterly single-mindedness,
she gave me this: "He isn't afraid of you any more, and says he is
going to thrash you."
"Me--why?" I asked in amazement. "What for?"
"Oh, papa says the same, too. They say that a man of your age ought to
be thrashed for talking to a girl of twelve. But I don't see why. I
like to talk to _you_."
The disparity in our ages had not influenced me when younger, and as it
was growing less each day that we lived I had not given it a thought.
But this new attitude of her father and brother compelled me to, and in
helpless anger and chagrin--for I was either the same bad boy of the
village, or, still worse, a man playing the boy--I forswore her society
and went back to my third term at the academy, resolved not to seek her
again until she was of age. And with me on the train, as it pulled out
of town, was George Morton, bound for college, but we did not speak.
I manfully held to my resolution until I had finished my course at
the academy and my two years of sea service. Then I graduated, a
commissioned officer of the United States Navy, and with this backing,
and the heart hunger strong upon me, I returned to my old home,
bound to see my boyhood divinity at any cost. But I did not see her;
instead, I saw her brother at the door, and the stormy scene that
followed assured me that conventional social relations with her were
impossible. So, convinced that he had nursed the old antagonism through
the years, I fumed and sulked while waiting for sea orders, and even
half-heartedly planned unconventional relations--I sought to meet
her outside her home. But before I had met with any success, orders
came from Washington, sending me, not to a seagoing ship, but into
retirement until possible war should make my services of value to my
country.
With my career ended in the navy, and without friends, money, or
influence, I did the next best thing in the way of a livelihood. I
went to sea in the merchant service, beginning as third mate, and
learned real seafaring, which is good for sulks and heartaches. In
three years I was first mate, with the confidence of my skipper and
owners, and the prospect of a command; which attainment, and my assured
education and social position as a graduate of Annapolis, might give
me hope and courage to again approach my goddess. But, gradually
and imperceptibly--unknown to myself because there was none to tell
me--the little niceties and refinements of speech, manner, and dress
acquired at the academy, and which make a naval officer eligible to any
society in the world, had worn away from me under the harder work and
rougher associations of the merchant service; so that, when paid off at
Philadelphia in my twenty-sixth year, I was as hardy a specimen of the
typical "Yankee mate" as could be found on the water front. I shaved
for comfort, not appearance, and wore my clothes for utility rather
than beauty.
Thus arrayed and conditioned I killed time while waiting for word to
join my ship, and one day ran over to Asbury Park, finding the huge
resort half deserted, as it was in October; but there was enough of
life there to suit me, the air was clean and salt as that at sea, and I
decided to remain a few days.
I remained too long for my peace of mind and immediate welfare. The
quiet and solitude brought back the old morbid melancholy, and in this
mood I wandered about the beach and through the streets lined with
deserted cottages, fighting with myself and reviling the fates that
had made sport of my life and ideals. In this mood I was ripe for any
adventure, and spying, late at night, a figure slinking by me in the
darkness, that reminded me of George Morton, I softly followed, keeping
him in sight, but not letting him see me. He entered a dark, two-story
house in a row of other dark cottages, and I mechanically walked on,
halting before the house, with a hazy idea that perhaps it _was_ George
Morton, and that his family lived there. No light appeared from within,
however, and I slowly retraced my steps, pausing at the next street
lamp to fire up my pipe.
While puffing at the half-lit tobacco a dark figure darted from across
the street and joined me in the lamplight. It was a girl, all but her
face hidden by a hooded cloak, and this face was so white, drawn,
and terror-haunted, that I could barely recognize in it some little
resemblance to that of the child I had loved. Then she spoke, and
before my brain had grasped the fact that Grace Morton must have grown
up, I knew her voice. And the next moment, without leave or ceremony, I
had her in my arms, and kissed the frightened face until she struggled
free.
"Oh, Jack," she said brokenly, "and it is really you, after all! I saw
you to-day from the parlor of the hotel, but I could not be sure--you
have changed so much. Where have you been all these years? I have
needed you so much, _so much_, and I could trust no one but you. You
must help me to-night, Jack."
"Of course," I answered. "What is it?"
"My brother--you know him. Did you know?--no, you couldn't. Jack, he
has gone into the house there--the house we have lived in all summer;
and I think, I almost know, he is setting fire to it. You followed him.
I saw you. Did you notice a bundle?"
"Setting fire!" I exclaimed in amazement. "Why, I thought--"
"Yes," she interrupted. "We all thought him a fire hater, because
he did not fear it. But he loves it. He set fire to every house and
building that he later helped put out; Mr. Mills' house--remember--and
the school, and the seminary. He joined the church since then, and
confessed to father and me. But father is dead now, and I am alone with
him. Come, you must stop him. Stop him by force, before it is too late.
Come! I am afraid of him alone. He is insane--at these times."
She seized my hand and hurried me back, puzzled and astounded at this
new revelation of human nature.
"He carried a bundle under his arm," she whispered as we reached the
door. "It is very likely a can of kerosene, purchased in Philadelphia,
where he went this morning. I was to go to New York, but I suspected
him and came back."
She opened the door with a key and we softly passed in. At once I
detected a faint odor of kerosene, but there was no light, no sound.
Grace led me through the lower rooms, but there was no sign of fire,
smoke, or firebug. We opened the cellar door and peered down into the
blackness, and the cool, odorless air told us that he was not there
with his oil.
"Upstairs," she whispered.
"Why not sing out?" I asked, in her ear. "It'll stop him."
"Don't you see?" she answered. "I want to catch him in the act, to
shock him, overwhelm him--and cure him."
I acquiesced, and we climbed the stairs, making no noise and sensing
more strongly as we went the rank smell of kerosene. She led me into
the front room, the door of which stood open. All was dark, and there
was no significant odor.
"This is his room," she whispered. "He must be in mine, in the rear."
We passed into the hall and peeped into this room. From a lighted house
on the next street a faint illumination showed up every corner in it;
and there in the middle, stooping low over his work, was George Morton,
laying a trail of oil from the nozzle of a can, back and forth across
the carpet. This done, he made a neat pile of newspapers against the
wall, emptied the can upon it, and applied a match. A nudge from the
girl started me and I walked in upon him. He uttered one snarling yell
as he glared into my face, then sprang upon me.
I was a strong, healthy man, large of frame, heavy, and well-trained in
most forms of personal combat; but I soon realized that I was fighting
a maniac. He writhed, twisted, and bent himself, forcing me again and
again to change or renew my hold upon him. Even though I held him at
arm's length, I could not retain my grip without help from the other
hand, and then I would likely feel one or both of his feet on my chest.
It was like wrestling with a panther. I shook him, and, flail-like,
whirled him around me, but I could not conquer him without hurting
him, and this I did not wish to do. As the fight resolved itself into
a struggle of endurance, I heard a few broken words from Grace, barely
distinguishable above the noise of the scuffle, and a later glance
around told me that she was gone.
And still I fought on, endeavoring to master the firebug without
hurting him--just why, I have never been able to explain to myself.
Possibly, I dimly felt at the time that his sister would not like it,
for I spared him the weight of my fist and the throttling clutch that
would have ended the fight in a moment, even though his own hands had
torn my coat to shreds, and my face was scorched and smeared with
kerosene in one of my whirling lunges toward his bonfire. He, too, must
have felt the heat, for his snarling utterances took on a note of pain,
and for a few moments he struggled in my grasp more furiously than
ever; then he paused, became limp in my hands, and seemed to sink down.
It was a clever ruse, for no sooner had I relaxed my hold than he broke
away and shot out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street.
I let him go, but looked around; the room was in flames on two sides,
while several trails of burning oil traversed the floor.
I believe that some men in my position would have followed him; but I
know that any fireman, policeman, soldier, or sailor would have done
exactly as I did--remain to put out the fire. I dragged the blankets
from the bed, whipped the flames from the walls and windows as I
could, and when they were burned beyond use threw the fragments on to
the still burning bonfire to smother it. As I labored I heard shouts
of "Fire!" in the streets, and welcomed the news that assistance was
coming. Then I heard the clatter and clang of the engines and voices
and footsteps on the stairs. I whipped away at the flames, and just
as I laid the last damaged blanket on the now smouldering fire, a
policeman burst into the room and seized me.
"Caught wi' the goods, hev! Stand still," he said. "Stand still, or
I'll fan you."
I ceased my momentary struggle with him as firemen came in with hose
and an extinguisher, and stopped myself in a half-uttered sentence of
explanation. This was a matter of family honor that need not be made
public.
"It's a job all right, isn't it, Bill?" asked the officer of a fireman
who was calmly playing a small stream from the extinguisher on the
remaining flames.
"Surest job I ever saw," answered the man, turning for a look at me in
the darkening light. "Pretty tough-looking customer. Don't belong to
this town. Smell the kerosene?"
"I smell it all right. You can smell it a mile, and he's got it on his
clothes, too. Come on wi' me, my jewel. You're good for a few years at
Trenton."
Under a fictitious name I spent the night in jail, and in the morning,
before the time for court to open, received a visit from Mr. George
Morton.
"Want to get at the person higher up, Mr. Morton?" asked the jailer, as
they appeared before my cell. "Well, I can give you about half an hour."
"Yes, yes," answered my visitor. "I want to talk with him privately;
so, leave us alone, if you will. But don't get beyond call, please--not
too far away."
"Right. I'll come if I hear from you."
He admitted Morton and locked him in with me, then left us alone.
Morton was clean and well-dressed, with only a nervousness of speech
and movement to indicate that a few hours before he had fought for
liberty and honor with the man he was now facing. He took a seat at the
end of my plank, while I sat at the other end, and took his measure;
thinner and older, of course, than when I had known him at school, but
with the same graceful figure, and handsome, though unpleasant, face.
"Well," I said, with what sarcasm I could command. "Are you here to get
me to tell who hired me to set fire to your house?"
"Not exactly," he answered, eying me closely. "I'm here to find out
what you mean to do."
"I'm waiting on you," I said sharply. "I've kept quiet on your sister's
account, but I expect you to clear up this matter, in any way you can."
"How? By pleading guilty myself? I am also interested in my sister, and
I do not think she would like it."