The Third Alarm: A Story of the New York Fire DepartmentFord, James L. (James Lauren)
General
The Third Alarm: A Story of the New York Fire Department
Ford, James L. (James Lauren)
Fire fighters -- New York (State) -- New York -- Juvenile fiction; New York (N.Y.). Fire Department -- Juvenile fiction
“I think that after all I have played my cards wonderfully well and
unless some brat turns up with a claim on it nothing can prevent me from
inheriting the bulk of the estate. So far he knows nothing about the
shop down town, but if he ever finds out about it I shall be ruined.
I’ll take care that he doesn’t though, and, after all, the city is so
big, and there are so many people in it, that the chances of his or
anybody else’s connecting me with that shop are very small indeed. The
boy has got some stuff in him and under my tuition he’ll amount to
something. I think I’ll take hold of him if he does this business in the
country all right, and give him a steady job, looking after my affairs.
He’s a smart little brute and knows enough to keep his mouth shut. It’s
easy enough to get some lawyer to go up there and find out what I want
to know but a lawyer would be too smart to suit me; he’d suspect
something at once, whereas this kid will think of nothing except the
money he’s going to get, besides if he did want to blab he’d find no one
but some youngster of his own age and class to talk to. I guess I did
the best thing I could in sending him up there, but all the same I shall
be anxious until he gets back.”
At this point in his reflections, the tall, dark bearded man rose to his
feet, walked swiftly down the winding path, passed through the front
gate, and then went on down below it till he reached the station of the
east side of the Elevated railroad. Three quarters of an hour later he
entered the little office on Eldridge Street where the bookkeeper was
still diligently at work on his big ledger.
“How is business to-day?” he asked of his assistant.
“Pretty fair,” replied the other, as he handed his chief a batch of
letters that had arrived in the morning’s mail, and which he had opened
and perused. Mr. Korwein took the letters in his hand, pushed open a
small swinging door behind the bookkeeper’s desk and disappeared into
the room beyond, leaving the old bookkeeper toiling away with his
scratching pen as if he had been at it all his life and never expected
to stop.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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