But beyond this corner Skinny positively refused to go. Plucky as he was, and heedless of results, he had a profound fear for the big strong man out of whose stern grasp he had wriggled that very day.
“You go over dere, an’ brace de old bloke. I’ll wait here. He’s dere, fer de lights in the windy,” he said. And Bruce was forced to make his visit alone.
Never before in his life had he gone about any task that so tried his nerves as this one, and it was fully five minutes before he could make up his mind to open the door and enter the money-lender’s dingy office. At last, however, his will conquered his fears, and he marched boldly up the steps, opened the door and closed it behind him with a sharp bang. Mr. Korwein was standing behind the tall desk adding up a long column of figures in his ledger. He looked up as the boy entered and said rather roughly: “Well, what can I do for you this evening?”
“I’m not quite sure what you can do for me,” rejoined his visitor, looking him carefully in the face and speaking in a tone which arrested the tall man’s attention at once. “I heard that you are making some rather particular inquiries about me, and I thought if there was anything you wanted to know, I might be able to tell you myself.”
“Inquiries about you!” repeated Mr. Korwein, dropping his pen and coming out from behind the tall desk, in order to get a good view of his visitor, “why, who are you?”
“My name is Bruce Decker, and I am the son of Frank Decker, the fireman,” was the boy’s answer.
Not much in the words he uttered nor in the tone of his voice, one would say. But enough to drive every particle of color from the money-lender’s face and to cause him to start back with a half suppressed oath on his lips, and an expression in which rage, disappointment and astonishment seemed to be blended in equal parts.
“Frank Decker’s son! He never had any son!” he exclaimed.
“Oh yes he did,” replied Bruce “and I am that son. I heard you were looking for me. Now that I am here, tell me what you want.”
“And so you are really Frank’s boy are you,” said the money-lender, speaking in a more conciliatory tone and evidently trying to recover his equanimity, “well I am glad to see you, glad to see you. I’ve been looking for you because, because—to tell the truth, there is a little money coming to you, not much my boy, not very much, but something. It was left to your father, and by his death goes to his next of kin. If you are really his son, you are entitled to it. But I must have proof you know, proof, before I can pay it over. Where do you live, my boy? Let me know your address and I will look you up and see that you receive every cent that is your due.” He wiped the perspiration from his face as he entered with much care in a memorandum book the address which Bruce gave him, which was that of Chief Trask’s house and not of the boy’s. And then, declaring that he could say no more until he received absolute proof that Bruce was what he represented himself to be, he opened the door and ushered his visitor out into the street.