The Third Alarm: A Story of the New York Fire Department

by James L. Ford

“Well, we are dependent on our friends for that,” replied the chief, “there are a number of people who send us books and papers from time to time, and without them, I can assure you that the hours would hang pretty heavily on our hands.”

“Why, I have a lot of books and magazines in my garret that I shall never have any use for,” exclaimed Mr. Dexter, “and if you could send up for them some day, I would be very glad to let you have them.” Chief Trask thanked him for his offer and turning to Bruce who stood by, directed him to drive up there in one of his wagons the next morning and get the periodicals.

The next day accordingly, Bruce started in the chief’s wagon and drove slowly up Lexington avenue, then turning to the right and crossing the Harlem river he found himself in an entirely strange part of the city. There were not many houses to be seen, and down near the water were great stretches of open fields and in some places heaps of lumber and enormous bins of coal. Continuing in a northerly direction he soon found the quiet avenue on which Mr. Dexter lived, and then he entered a wide gate and drove along a short roadway leading to a big, square, gloomy looking stone house, completely hidden from the street by a dense hedge and some thick clusters of fir trees.

He knew from the description that had been given him that he had found the right place, and somehow, the house, the big hedge and the front doorway seemed strangely familiar to him. It seemed to him that some time in the remote past he had either been there before or else dreamt of just such a place, only the picture that had remained faintly outlined in his mind was of a house and hedge and trees that were fully five times as tall as those which he now saw before him. And then it seemed to him that the old picture which had lingered, though forgotten, in his mind for so many years contained also another door in the same house, a side door that was smaller and shaded by vines that clambered about a wooden porch. He had alighted from the wagon by this time and, impelled by curiosity, he tied his horse to a post in which was set a great rusty iron ring, and then walked around the house to see if his dream or memory whatever it might be, would prove true.

“For fully a minute Bruce stood looking at the house.”—Page [47].

Yes, there was the old doorway with the clematis clambering about it, just as his fancy had painted it, except that the door seemed smaller, and the clinging vines less luxuriant than in his dream. For fully a minute Bruce stood looking at the house and wondering when he could have seen it before, or whether it was simply an accidental freak of his imagination that made the scene seem so familiar to him.

He was still looking and wondering when the door opened and Mr. Dexter himself appeared on the doorsill.

“Come in young man,” he said, “you’ve come up for those old books and magazines I suppose.”

“Yes sir,” replied the boy, taking off his hat respectfully. “Chief Trask sent me up for them with the wagon.” Following the old gentleman, he entered a dark hallway, in one corner of which stood a heap of novels, books of travel, magazines and other publications, which had been brought down that morning from the garret. The boy’s eyes glistened as he looked at the big heap, and thought of the pleasure that he would have in going through them, during his next leisure hours. Aided by one of Mr. Dexter’s servants, he placed them in the wagon, and then, having thanked the old gentleman for his kindness, he drove slowly down the winding roadway, and thence through the gate into the street. He stopped a moment to look at the landscape that lay stretched before him, hoping that he might see in it some object that, like the old front porch would recall some childish memory, but there was nothing that was in any way familiar to him, and he drove away shaking his head and very much puzzled by what he had seen. He was still thinking over the events of the day and wondering whether he had ever seen Mr. Dexter before, for his face too had a familiar look and somehow seemed to be perfectly in accord with the old stone house and the big, solemn hedge that hid it from the road, when his attention was attracted by a voice that seemed to come almost from under the carriage wheels.