“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 men 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 while, 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 out 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.
Chapter VIII.
For fully a fortnight after his strange experience in the upper part of the city, Bruce heard nothing from Harry Van Kuren, the boy whom he had picked up by the roadside and conveyed home. He had hoped, at first, that their chance acquaintance might develop into a permanent friendship, for since his arrival in the city he had associated entirely with the men in the fire company and, boy like, he was beginning to pine for the companionship of lads of his own age. Two or three times he had thought of writing a note to Harry to ask him how his foot was getting along, but he had hesitated, for fear he should be looked upon as endeavoring to intrude upon a boy whose condition in life was, he could not help feeling, very much better than his own. So Bruce, who was an independent, self-respecting lad, determined to let the other make the first advance, if he desired to continue the acquaintance.