Both Weyman and Brophy were right in regard to the young boy. He had altered materially since his acquaintance with Harry and Laura Van Kuren. It had made him dissatisfied to see children of his own age living in the style that he had never dreamt of before, and he could not help asking himself why it was that he, Bruce Decker, should be obliged to look after horses, and run errands for the chief of a fire battalion while Harry, who was neither better nor cleverer than he was, had a pony of his own to ride, wore good clothes every day, and in short, lived upon the very fat of the land; and this problem, which he put to himself very often now, always led him to speculate as to his own origin, and to wonder whether Laura could be right in her belief that he was being unjustly kept out of innumerable good things that rightfully belonged to him. Charley Weyman, who was a close observer and took a deep interest in the son of his old friend, was right in his surmise that Bruce was in love, although the boy himself would have been very much surprised if he had been told of it. Never in all his life had he met any girl as pretty, as well-bred and as charming as Laura Van Kuren. She seemed to him to have no fault, except perhaps her habit of quarreling with her brother, but that was an occurrence of such frequency that Bruce had become accustomed to it and was no longer surprised when the two children fell out. He had noticed, too, that they never “stayed mad” with one another, to use an expressive phrase in vogue among children, and although he had once seen Laura so far forget the ethics of society as to hurl a half a brick at her brother’s head, he noticed that within five minutes afterward they were playing together as happily as if nothing had happened. And then what boy could resist a girl who took as deep an interest in him as Laura did in the young fireman? Why, she even took a much deeper interest in solving what she called, quoting from one of her favorite romances “the mystery that shrouded his birth” than he did himself, and if it had not been for her active co-operation and sympathy he was sure that the incident of the old doorway of the Dexter mansion would have passed from his mind without his making any effort to learn its significance. Moreover, the novelty of life in the great city was beginning to wear off, and he could not deny that his work at quarters was becoming a trifle irksome to him. It was always the same thing, rubbing down the horses, cleaning out their stalls, waiting in the building while the men were away and now and then doing an errand for Chief Trask or Charley Weyman. He had not even been allowed to go to a fire since the important day when he drove the truck down to the tenement house region and beheld for the first time the tall man with the black beard and the scarred face.