“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. “I say, can’t you give me a lift? I’ve hurt my ankle,” was what he heard, as he hastily pulled up his horse and there, seated on a big rock, by the roadside, was a young boy, apparently not more than fifteen years of age, whose handsome clothes were torn and dust-covered, and whose face was deathly pale. Bruce alighted at once from the wagon and asked him what the matter was. “I was just on my way home,” replied the boy, “and I tried to make a running jump over those rocks, when I slipped and fell, now it hurts me to touch my foot to the ground, and my left ankle hurts me awfully. Can’t you take me home in your wagon? My father will pay you for your trouble.” “Certainly, I’ll give you a lift,” replied Bruce, “but your father needn’t pay me anything for it; just stand up beside me and I’ll lift you in.” With a little trouble, he placed the boy in the seat and then climbed in himself and sat down beside him. The two lads were not slow in making one another’s acquaintance. The injured boy said that his name was Harry Van Kuren and he pointed out his father’s house, a large handsome residence surrounded by well kept grounds. He was fifteen years old, he said, and did not go to school, but had a private tutor who lived in the house with him, and nearly always accompanied him when he went out to walk or ride. “And how do you happen to be here?” inquired young Van Kuren. Then Bruce told him of his errand to Mr. Dexter’s and showed him the pile of books and magazines which he was taking back for the firemen to read.