“Do you see that boy sitting on the curbstone over the way? Well, he’s been there for the last half hour, and I’d just like to know what he’s up to. Run over, Charley, and ask him what he wants.”

It was John Trask, a chief of battalion in the New York Fire Department who addressed these words to his subordinate, Charley Weyman, one pleasant afternoon in early spring, and the boy to whom he referred had been sitting for some time on the curbstone across the street from the hook and ladder company’s quarters, peering anxiously through the open door which afforded him a view of the hook and ladder truck, the horses quietly munching their hay, and, in the rear room, half a dozen firemen seated about a table talking, reading or playing checkers.

The boy, who seemed to be about fifteen years of age, looked as if he had just reached town after a long and weary walk. His clothes were torn and travel-stained, and there was a 2gaunt, hungry look in his face that spoke unmistakably of want and privation. It was this look and the boy’s dejected attitude which had first attracted the chief’s attention for he feared that he might be waiting for a chance to get into the building, and steal what he could lay his hands on.

“There’s something queer about that kid,” he continued, half to himself, as he watched Weyman cross the street and enter into conversation with him. “Hulloa! he’s bringing him over here; he must want to see somebody,” and just then the fireman entered leading the boy with him.

“He says he wants to see you, chief,” said Weyman, seating himself in an arm-chair while the boy stood with his hat in his hand waiting respectfully for the other to address him.

“Well, my boy,” said the chief of battalion in a kindly voice, “what can I do for you?”

“Are you Mr. John Trask, chief of the battalion?” inquired the boy.

“I am” was the reply.

“Well, did you ever have a man here in the company named Frank Decker?”

At the mention of this name a sudden silence fell upon the little group of men who were gathered about the table, newspapers were 3laid aside, the talking ceased, and every eye was turned on the hungry looking, travel-stained boy who stood with his hat in his hand, looking the chief squarely in the face while he put the question.

The chief paused a moment as he adjusted a pair of eye-glasses on his nose, and then answered in a voice that had something of a stern soldierly ring in it: “I knew Frank Decker well, and I wish there were more men on the earth like him. But what have you to do with Frank Decker?”

“My name is Bruce Decker and Frank Decker was my father” replied the boy, still looking the chief squarely in the eye and trying to speak steadily, but there was a little break in his voice as he mentioned his father’s name and a faint quiver in his lower lip as he finished. “Frank Decker’s boy!” exclaimed Weyman springing to his feet, “Why I never knew he had a boy!”

“Where do you come from, young man?” inquired Chief Trask, regarding him now with a new interest and shifting his position so as to get a clear view of the young lad’s face.

“I come from Oswego County way back in the state, where I’ve lived all my life. I got here early this morning and came here because 4I had no other place to go to. I’ve never been in New York before, but father used to tell me about you and a friend of his named Mr. Weyman and so I thought maybe you’d be willing to give me a lift, if only on his account.”

“Upon my word I believe the boy is speaking the truth,” said Chief Trask; “he’s got Frank’s nose and eyes and his straight way of looking at you and—here just turn around a moment, my boy—yes, there it is, that little patch of gray on the back of his head that Frank used to tell us was the birth mark of every Decker that ever was born. Well young man—Bruce you say your name is? I’m glad to see you, and what’s more I’ll be glad to help you, if you need help. Here, give me your hand and sit down beside me.”

Bruce seated himself beside his new friend and then Weyman stepped over and whispered something in the chief’s ear.

“Certainly!” exclaimed that official hastily, “come along with me, boy, and have something to eat; it’s just about dinner time.”

As the two left the truck house the others laid aside their newspapers and games and began an eager discussion of the new arrival, whose father had been, until his death three months before, a member of the company.

5“I heard once that he had a boy somewhere up the country,” said Tom Brophy, “and I’ve no doubt this lad is just what he claims to be, the son of Frank Decker, because he resembles him in every particular. And if he is Frank’s son why we ought to see to it that he has a fair chance to get along here, and not turn him adrift—to make out as best he can. We’re not one of us rich, but we’re not so poor that we can’t spare a dollar now and then for a son of one of the squarest and best men that the department ever had.”

Brophy’s words were received with a degree of enthusiasm and approval that showed plainly that he and his comrades were of one mind as to the course they should pursue in welcoming and looking after the son of their old friend, and until the return of the boy and Chief Trask, they sat talking over the days when Frank Decker was one of the quickest, bravest and most popular men in all the department.

But before proceeding any further with our story, it will be necessary to turn back to the time about twelve years before the appearance of Bruce Decker at the door of the New York truck house, when Frank Decker, a strong, hearty, active man of twenty-five, turned his back on the little village near Lake Ontario, 6where he had just buried his young wife, and, having placed his little boy in the care of some distant relatives, set out for the city in the hope of beginning anew a career which had been broken by financial misfortune and the loss of his wife. Through the influence of an old friend he had obtained an appointment in the fire department, in which service he had distinguished himself by his bravery, coolness and zeal, qualities which served to commend him to the notice of the chief officers of the department, and which would probably have won for him a place at the head of a battalion, had it not been for the awful catastrophe at the burning of the Gothic Hotel on Broadway.

On this occasion Decker arrived, entered the hotel at the command of his chief, and ascended the staircase, in order to save some women who were supposed to be in one of the upper floors. That was the last seen of him, and late that night when the rest of his company had been relieved and were slowly making their way home, they spoke little of anything or anybody, save Frank Decker, who was among the missing and who had gone down before that awful sheet of flame that broke out and swept through the hotel about five minutes after he was seen to enter the building.

7Half a dozen charred bodies were taken from the ruins the next day, but which one of them had once been Frank Decker no one could tell.

And while the father had been at work in the fire department, the child whom he had left in the little village in the northern part of the State, had grown in health, strength and mind, and was now in his sixteenth year, an active, vigorous, straightforward youth, who inherited all his father’s daring and quickness, together with a willingness to learn and a decided taste for books, which had come to him direct from his mother.

During his short life he had cherished but one ambition, which was to become a fireman, and most of the correspondence which he always maintained with his father, had been in regard to the workings of the New York department, and particularly the battalion to which the elder belonged. Once a year the father had returned to his old home on the shore of the great fresh water lake to spend his short vacation with his boy, and during these visits it had been the habit of the two to take long walks and sails together, enjoying themselves after their own fashion, the boy listening with flushed cheeks and bated breath, while his father described to him the life of excitement 8and danger which he led as a member of what he always called, “the greatest fire department in the world.”

From his father’s lips the boy had heard stories of the swift runs to fires, of thrilling midnight rescues, of brave firemen plunging into solid sheets of smoke and flame, and so strong a hold had these stories taken on his mind that his desire to become a fireman himself had slowly grown within him, until it became the one fixed and cherished ambition of his life.

So it happened, naturally enough, that at his father’s death he resolved to make his way to New York and ask John Trask, the chief of his father’s old battalion, to appoint him to a place in the Department.

We have described in an earlier part of this chapter the arrival of Bruce Decker, footsore and travel-stained at the truck house, and his reception at the hands of the chief and his subordinates, and we left him going out for dinner under the guidance of his newly-made friend.

When he returned from the restaurant where he had enjoyed a hearty meal and a long, confidential talk with the chief, he stopped by the stalls in which the horses were standing, stroked the nose of the big gray, and said, without an instant’s hesitation: “Well, Pete, old fellow, I’ve heard of you many a time,” and the horse laid his muzzle on the boy’s shoulder and whinnied softly, as if he were returning the friendly greeting. The men noticed this and exchanged significant glances.

“Well, Pete, old fellow, I’ve heard of you many a time.”—Page 8.

9“Just like his father,” said Weyman, in a low voice, “do you remember how fond Frank used to be of those horses? Why, he never came into the house without stopping to pet them.”

“Well, my little man, how would you like to become a fireman? enquired Chief Trask, pleasantly, as he seated himself in his arm-chair and prepared to light his pipe. But before Bruce could answer, the sharp ring of the alarm bell echoed through the building and startled everyone into sudden activity.”