With the possible exception of John Trask, it is doubtful if Bruce had a better friend in the whole company than Charley Weyman, who drove the truck and was looked upon as one of the nerviest and most active firemen in the battalion. Weyman had been Frank Decker’s most intimate friend, and the natural interest which he took in the son was deepened by the readiness shown by the latter to oblige his new friend and to help him in every possible way in the discharge of his duty.

It was not unnatural then that Bruce should decide to repeat to Weyman his strange experiences at Mr. Dexter’s house, and accordingly one afternoon, a few days subsequent to his visit, he said to the fireman, just as they had seated themselves for a quiet game of checkers: “There was a funny thing happened to me the other day when I went after those books, and I’d like to know if you could give me any explanation of it.”

“Well, what was the funny thing?” inquired the other, as he moved one of his men in the direction of the king row.

54“Well, you know Chief Trask sent me up to Mr. Dexter’s house to get a lot of books and magazines. I don’t suppose you were ever up there, were you?”

“No, can’t say that I ever was, but it’s your move,” rejoined Weyman.

“It’s a great big house,” went on Bruce, as he moved one of his men so carelessly that his opponent instantly took it, “in fact it’s one of the finest houses I was ever in. There’s a big, thick hedge that separates it from the street, and when you get inside the hedge there’s a roadway that winds through a big, thick clump of firs and pines, right up to the front door of the house. The minute I came inside the gate the place took on a familiar look and I was positive that some time or other I’d been there before. When I stopped in front of the door, that looked familiar too, and then I seemed to remember that there was another door on the other side of the house that was smaller and had a little porch over it, so as to shade the doorstep. Just to see if I was right or not, I got out and walked around the house and there, sure enough, was the side door, just as I had either dreamt it or remembered it some time ever so many years ago; only it seemed to me that in reality the place 55was only about one quarter as big as I had imagined it.”

By this time Weyman had become so much interested in the boy’s narrative that he had ceased entirely to think of the game and was now gazing at Bruce in the intense manner of one who is hearing some startling piece of news in which he has a strong personal interest.

“You say that you remember the place and yet you were never there before?” demanded the fireman.

“Yes,” answered the boy, “and moreover I don’t think that I could have seen a picture of it, for the smell of the flowers and of the vines over the porch was just as familiar to my nostrils as the doorway was to my eyes. I don’t think I could ever have been there before, and it seemed to me as if I had dreamt of the place, not once, but a great many times.”

For a moment or two Charles Weyman was silent, then he pushed away the checkerboard and said: “What you’ve just told me, Bruce, is very curious and seems to confirm an idea that came to me long ago when your father was alive. Do you know anything about your father or his relations?”

Bruce thought a minute, and then answered: “No, I never knew he had any relations. I was 56brought up by some old people who lived in the country on the shore of Lake Ontario and only saw my father once a year. Then he never used to talk to me about anything except the fire company, and it was that that made me crazy to join the service. If he had any brothers or sisters or cousins he never mentioned them to me, and to tell the truth this is the first time in my life that I ever thought about the subject.”

“But didn’t your mother have any relations who are living now?” inquired Weyman.

“Not that I ever heard of. She died when I was very young and I can scarcely remember her. Since then I lived with those old people, who took care of me, but after my father died, I determined to strike out for myself and so I came down to New York.”

“Well, if I were you,” said Weyman, “I would write home to someone in the country who knew your father, and make some inquiries about his family. In fact, I should think you’d like to know who you are. There was always something mysterious about your father—something that I never could understand. He was a man of much better education than any of the rest of us, and I remember once or twice seeing well dressed gentlemen, evidently 57men of high position, stop in the streets to shake hands and talk with him. On such occasions he never offered any explanation except to ask me not to speak of it to the other men. Well as I knew him, I never knew positively that he had a child living, and I was more surprised than any man in the company when you turned up that afternoon and told us you were Frank Decker’s son.”

“But,” exclaimed Bruce, who, of course, had become very much interested in his companion’s words, “didn’t you ever hear him say anything or mention any name that could serve as a sort of clue to his origin? If I had anything to work on, I might follow it up and perhaps find out who his relations were. However, perhaps it would not be worth the trouble, for they might not be particularly glad to have a poor boy like me, who hasn’t a cent in the world, turn up and claim connection with them. I think I am just about as well off here as I would be with any of my kin.”

“There are one or two things about your father that come to my mind now,” said Weyman, after a moment’s reflection, “and although I gave them no thought at the time, still they might be of some use to you. There was a man who came around to see him once in a 58while, and when he came the two always went out and walked up and down the street, talking together. Sometimes they got excited, and I noticed that your father was never the same after one of these visits. He would sit in a corner, moody and sullen, sometimes talking to himself, and it would take him a couple of days to get back to his old frame of mind again. He was naturally a light-hearted, jovial fellow, and that’s why I couldn’t help noticing the effect these visits had on him.”

“What sort of a looking man was he, who called on him, and always seemed to upset him so?” asked the boy.

“He was tall and dark and well-dressed, and I’d know him anywhere by a scar he had on his face that was partly hidden by a stiff black beard he always wore. The last time he was here was the day before the big fire at which your father was killed. I remember it well, because that morning before the first alarm came in Frank hardly spoke to me, but sat over there in that corner, smoking his pipe and looking as if he had lost the last friend he had on earth.”

“And you don’t know who that dark man was or what name he gave?” said the boy.

Weyman shook his head slowly. “No,” he said, “I did know his name once, but it passed 59out of my mind. If I were you, I would write a letter up to the country and see if I couldn’t find out something in the way of a clue.”

Just at this moment Chief Trask came in and told Bruce to hitch up the wagon and go with him up to headquarters, and so the conversation came to an end. But all that day the young boy was very thoughtful, and when night came he had determined to set to work, quietly and persistently, to find out something about his father and his mother, and to learn if he had any kindred living in the world. He had no clues to follow except the legend of the dark man with the scar on his face, and the resemblance of Philip Dexter’s house to something of which he had once dreamt and still had a vague recollection.