By this time Weyman had become so much interested in the boy’s narrative that he had ceased entirely to think of the game and was now gazing at Bruce in the intense manner of one who is hearing some startling piece of news in which he has a strong personal interest. “You say that you remember the place and yet you were never there before?” demanded the fireman. “Yes,” answered the boy, “and moreover I don’t think that I could have seen a picture of it, for the smell of the flowers and of the vines over the porch was just as familiar to my nostrils as the doorway was to my eyes. I don’t think I could ever have been there before, and it seemed to me as if I had dreamt of the place, not once, but a great many times.” For a moment or two Charles Weyman was silent, then he pushed away the checkerboard and said: “What you’ve just told me, Bruce, is very curious and seems to confirm an idea that came to me long ago when your father was alive. Do you know anything about your father or his relations?” Bruce thought a minute, and then answered: “No, I never knew he had any relations. I was brought up by some old people who lived in the country on the shore of Lake Ontario and only saw my father once a year. Then he never used to talk to me about anything except the fire company, and it was that that made me crazy to join the service. If he had any brothers or sisters or cousins he never mentioned them to me, and to tell the truth this is the first time in my life that I ever thought about the subject.” “But didn’t your mother have any relations who are living now?” inquired Weyman. “Not that I ever heard of. She died when I was very young and I can scarcely remember her. Since then I lived with those old people, who took care of me, but after my father died, I determined to strike out for myself and so I came down to New York.” “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.”