It is doubtful if the whole city of New York contained a happier boy than the one who was lying, sorely wounded and with his eyes inflamed and almost blinded, in a narrow white cot in a common hospital ward. The sun was shining brightly through the tall windows, and the distant hum and roar of the great city sounded faintly in his ears. He knew that it would be many weeks, perhaps months, before he could hope to resume the career which had been interrupted so suddenly the day before, and to a boy who had never known a day’s illness in his life the prospect of a long, irksome confinement was anything but pleasant. Nevertheless, Bruce Decker felt that he had a great deal to make him happy just then.
First of all he realized that he had done his duty in facing danger the first time that he was called upon, and Chief Trask’s encouraging words had sounded more agreeably in his ears than anything that he had ever heard before. Moreover, the fact that not only the chief but Harry and Laura Van Kuren had come at once to his bedside was another reason for his contented state of mind. But beside all this the memory of the exciting events of the day before filled his mind. There had come over him while he stood with a hose in his hand amid the smoke and blaze of the burning building an overwhelming sense of the importance and dignity of his calling, and it had seemed to him at that moment that he was no longer a mere boy, tolerated at the quarters because he could run errands and take care of horses, but a fireman in the truest sense of the word—one whose duty it was to go without fear wherever his chief led him, and to be ready, if necessary, to sacrifice his life (as his father had done before him) to save another’s. And now as he rested quietly in his bed the soldierly feeling had full possession of his soul. If he had ever cherished any serious thought of leaving the department and seeking employment in some other walk of life, that feeling was now entirely submerged by one of loyal devotion to the department which he had served, and to which he would return as soon as he could leave his bed, with a steadfast purpose far deeper than the enthusiasm which had influenced him before.
Taking all these things into consideration, it is not to be wondered at that a right-minded, brave young lad like Bruce Decker should have been positively happy in spite of his hurts as he lay there, one of twenty-four patients in the casualty ward. But although he did not know it, he had another reason for thankfulness, for he had attached to himself a new friend—a friend who was bound to prove of infinite service to him in untangling some of the threads which had caused him so much anxious thought of late. That new friend was lying in the cot next to him, silently watching him through a pair of sharp blue eyes.
Skinny the Swiper was a child of the New York streets, one of those boys who could not remember having had any home or kindred, and who, from his earliest recollection, had been living as best he could by selling papers, blacking boots, or doing anything that he could turn his hand to. His wits, naturally sharp, had been developed to a remarkable degree of precocity by his rough contact with the world until they had made him more than a match for any of the lads with whom he consorted. He had known very little kindness in his dozen years of life, and possibly it was for that reason that his heart went out in gratitude to the boy who had saved him, but Skinny was a lad of few words, and although he looked searchingly at the other and probably thought a great deal, it was not until late in the afternoon that he ventured to speak of what was uppermost in his thoughts. Then he raised himself slightly on his elbow and said: “Hay, boss, I seen dat young lady before, onct.”
Bruce did not like the idea of discussing such a superior being as Laura Van Kuren with a grimy little boy of the streets, and besides he did not believe that Skinny had ever seen her, so he answered rather curtly, “No, I guess you’re mistaken; that young lady doesn’t live in the same street with you.”
“Who said she did?” demanded the boy. “But I seen her all de same. Besides I don’t live in no street at all.”
“Well, where did you see her then?”
“I seen her way up near de Harlem. Her folks has got a big house dere, an’ one day when I was walkin’ by I stopped ter look troo de railin’ and she come up and gimme some grapes. She’s a jim dandy, dat young lady is.”
“But how came you away up there?” inquired Bruce, in some amazement.
“I went up dere fer a man wot useter git me to run errands onct in a while, and dat’s de way I seen her,” replied Skinny.