THROUGH BY DAYLIGHT;OR,THE YOUNG ENGINEER OF THE LAKE-SHORE RAILROAD.CHAPTER I.MR. WADDIE WIMPLETON.Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop—six pops.Mr. Waddie Wimpleton, an elegant young gentleman of fifteen, by all odds the nicest young man in Centreport, was firing at a mark with a revolver. It was a very beautiful revolver, too, silver-mounted, richly chased, and highly polished in all its parts, discharging six shots at each revolution, not often at the target, in the unskilful hands of Mr. Waddie, but sometimes near enough to indicate what the marksman was shooting at.Even the target was quite an elaborate affair; andthough Mr. Waddie had been shooting at it for a week, it was hardly damaged by the trial to which it had been subjected. It was two feet in diameter, having in its centre a tolerably correct resemblance of one of the optics of a bovine masculine; and this enigma, being literally interpreted, meant the bull’s eye, which Mr. Waddie was expected to hit, or at least to try to hit. Around it were several circles in black, red, yellow, green, and blue, each indicating a certain distance from the objective point of the shooter. There were a few holes in the target within these circles, but the central eye was not put out, and still glared defiance at the ambitious marksman.Mr. Waddie Wimpleton had everything he wanted, and therefore never wanted anything he had. There was no end to the ponies, sail-boats, row-boats, guns, pistols, fishing-rods, and other sporting gear, which came into his possession, and of which he soon became weary. His father was as rich as an East-Indian prince, and Mr. Waddie being an only son, though there were two daughters who partially “put his nose out of joint,” his paternal parent had labored industriously to spoil the child from babyhood. I amforced to acknowledge that he succeeded even better than he intended.Mr. Waddie was always waiting and watching for a new sensation. A magnificent kite, of party-colored silk, had evidently occupied his attention during the earlier hours of the morning, and it now lay neglected on the ground, the line stretched off in the direction of the lake. The young gentleman had become tired of the plaything, and when I approached him he was blazing away at the target with the revolver, at the rate of six shots in three seconds. I halted at a respectful distance from the marksman. He was not shooting at me, but I regarded this as the very reason why he would be likely to hit me. If he had been aiming at me, I should have approached him with more confidence.Keeping well in the rear of the young gentleman, I came within hailing distance of him. I did not belong to the “upper-ten” of Centreport, and I could not be said to be familiarly acquainted with him. My father was the engineer in his father’s steam-flouring mills, and a person of my humble connections was of no account in his estimation. But I amforced to confess that I had not that awe and respect for Mr. Waddie which wealth and a lofty social position demand of the humble classes. I had the audacity to approach the young scion of an influential house; and it was audacious, considered in reference to his pistol, if not to his social position.Pop, pop, pop, went the revolver again, as I placed myself about five rods in his rear, feeling tolerably safe in this position. When he had fired the three shots, he stopped and looked at me. I could not help noticing that his face wore an unusual aspect. Though he was at play, engaged in what would have been exceedingly exciting sport to a boy of my simple tastes, he did not appear to enjoy it. To be entirely candid, he looked ugly, and seemed to have no interest whatever in his game.Mr. Waddie Wimpleton could not only look ugly, but he could be ugly—as ugly as sin itself. Only the day before he had been concerned in an awful row on board of a canal boat, which lay at the pier a dozen rods from the spot where he was shooting. The boat had brought down a load of coal for the use of the steam mill, and, having discharged hercargo, was waiting till a fleet should be gathered of sufficient numbers to employ a small steamer to tow them up the lake. Mr. Waddie had gone on board. The owner’s family, according to the custom, lived in the cabin, and the young gentleman had employed his leisure moments in teasing the skipper’s daughter, a pretty and spirited girl of his own age. She answered his taunting speech with so much vim that Mr. Waddie got mad, and absolutely insulted her, using language which no gentleman would use in the presence of a female.At this point her father interfered, and reproved the nice young man so sharply, and withal so justly, that Waddie’s wrath turned from the daughter to the parent, and in his anger he picked up a piece of coal and hurled it at the honest skipper’s head. The latter, being the independent owner and master of the canal boat, and also an American citizen with certain unalienable rights, dodged the missile, and resented the impudence by seizing the young scion of an influential house by the collar of his coat, and after giving him a thorough shaking, much to the discomfiture of his purple and fine linen, threw himon the pier, very much as a Scotch terrier disposes of a rat after he has sufficiently mauled him.Mr. Waddie was not accustomed to this sort of treatment. Whatever he did in Centreport, and especially about his father’s estate and the steam mills, no one thought of opposing him. If he set any one’s shed on fire, shot anybody’s cow, or did other mischief, the only remedy was to carry a bill of damages to the young gentleman’s father; and then, though the claim was for double the value of the cow or the shed, the fond parent paid it without murmuring. No one had ever thought of taking satisfaction for injuries by laying violent hands on the scion.But the worthy captain of the canal boat, though he knew Colonel Wimpleton very well, had not learned to appraise an insult to him or his family in dollars and cents. The “young rascal,” as he profanely called the young gentleman, had insulted his daughter, had used vile and unbecoming language to her, and, if he had had a cowhide in his hand at the time, he would have used it unmercifully upon the soft skin of the dainty scion. He had no weapon but in his strong arms. Mr. Waddie had been madeto feel the weight of his muscle, and to see more stars than often twinkled over the tranquil surface of Lake Ucayga.Perhaps, if the indignant skipper of the canal boat had known Mr. Waddie better, he would have been disposed to moderate his wrath, and to have chosen a less objectionable mode of chastising his victim; though on this point I am not clear, for he was an American citizen, and an unprovoked insult to his daughter was more than he could patiently endure.Mr. Waddie struck the pier on his “beam ends.” I beg to inform my readers that I am a fresh-water sailor, and from the force of habit sometimes indulge in salt expressions. In the rapid evolutions which he had been compelled to make under the energetic treatment of the stalwart skipper, his ideas were considerably “mixed.” His body had performed so many unwonted and involuntary gyrations, that his muscles and limbs had been twisted into an aching condition. Besides, he struck the planks, whereof the pier was composed, so heavily, that the shock jounced from his body almost all the breath which had not been expendedin the gust of passion preceding the final catastrophe.The scion lay on the pier like a branch detached from the parent tree; for if he realized anything in that moment of defeat and disaster, it was that not even his father’s influence had, on this occasion, saved him from deserved retribution. He must have felt for the instant like one alone in the world. Mr. Waddie was ugly, as I have before suggested. The dose which had just been administered to him needed to be repeated many times, in order to effect a radical cure of his besetting sin. He was well punished, but unfortunately his antecedents had not been such as to prepare him for the remedial agency. It did him no good.Mr. Waddie lay upon the pier roaring like a bull. According to the legends of his childhood, some one ought to come and pick him up; some one ought to appear and mollify his rage, by promising summary vengeance upon the “naughty man” who had upset his philosophy, and almost riven his joints asunder. But no one came. His father and mother were not within the hearing of his voice—no onebut myself and the irate skipper and his family. The young gentleman lay on the pier and roared. All the traditions of the past were falsified, for no one came to his aid. I did not consider it my duty to meddle, under the circumstances, and the skipper would sooner have shaken him again than undone the good deed he had accomplished.As no one came to comfort him, Mr. Waddie roared till he was tired of roaring—till the breath came back to his body, and the full measure of ugliness came back to his mind. He got up. He walked down to the side of the canal boat, where the honest captain was sitting composedly on his stool. Mr. Waddie stormed furiously; Mr. Waddie even swore violently. Mr. Waddie inquired, in heated terms, if the honest skipper knew who he was.The honest skipper did not care who he was. He was an “unlicked cub.” No man or boy should insult his “darter” without as heavy a thrashing as he felt able to give him; and if the young gentleman gave him any more “sarse,” he would just step ashore and dip him a few times in the lake, just by way of cooling his heated blood, and giving him a lesson in good manners.Mr. Waddie had already tasted the quality of the skipper’s muscle, and he slowly retreated from the pier; but as he went, he vowed vengeance upon the author of his disaster. As he passed the spot where I was stopping a leak in an old skiff belonging to my father, he repeated his threats, and I felt confident at the time that Mr. Waddie intended to annihilate the honest skipper at the first convenient opportunity.
THROUGH BY DAYLIGHT;
OR,
THE YOUNG ENGINEER OF THE LAKE-SHORE RAILROAD.
MR. WADDIE WIMPLETON.
Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop—six pops.
Mr. Waddie Wimpleton, an elegant young gentleman of fifteen, by all odds the nicest young man in Centreport, was firing at a mark with a revolver. It was a very beautiful revolver, too, silver-mounted, richly chased, and highly polished in all its parts, discharging six shots at each revolution, not often at the target, in the unskilful hands of Mr. Waddie, but sometimes near enough to indicate what the marksman was shooting at.
Even the target was quite an elaborate affair; andthough Mr. Waddie had been shooting at it for a week, it was hardly damaged by the trial to which it had been subjected. It was two feet in diameter, having in its centre a tolerably correct resemblance of one of the optics of a bovine masculine; and this enigma, being literally interpreted, meant the bull’s eye, which Mr. Waddie was expected to hit, or at least to try to hit. Around it were several circles in black, red, yellow, green, and blue, each indicating a certain distance from the objective point of the shooter. There were a few holes in the target within these circles, but the central eye was not put out, and still glared defiance at the ambitious marksman.
Mr. Waddie Wimpleton had everything he wanted, and therefore never wanted anything he had. There was no end to the ponies, sail-boats, row-boats, guns, pistols, fishing-rods, and other sporting gear, which came into his possession, and of which he soon became weary. His father was as rich as an East-Indian prince, and Mr. Waddie being an only son, though there were two daughters who partially “put his nose out of joint,” his paternal parent had labored industriously to spoil the child from babyhood. I amforced to acknowledge that he succeeded even better than he intended.
Mr. Waddie was always waiting and watching for a new sensation. A magnificent kite, of party-colored silk, had evidently occupied his attention during the earlier hours of the morning, and it now lay neglected on the ground, the line stretched off in the direction of the lake. The young gentleman had become tired of the plaything, and when I approached him he was blazing away at the target with the revolver, at the rate of six shots in three seconds. I halted at a respectful distance from the marksman. He was not shooting at me, but I regarded this as the very reason why he would be likely to hit me. If he had been aiming at me, I should have approached him with more confidence.
Keeping well in the rear of the young gentleman, I came within hailing distance of him. I did not belong to the “upper-ten” of Centreport, and I could not be said to be familiarly acquainted with him. My father was the engineer in his father’s steam-flouring mills, and a person of my humble connections was of no account in his estimation. But I amforced to confess that I had not that awe and respect for Mr. Waddie which wealth and a lofty social position demand of the humble classes. I had the audacity to approach the young scion of an influential house; and it was audacious, considered in reference to his pistol, if not to his social position.
Pop, pop, pop, went the revolver again, as I placed myself about five rods in his rear, feeling tolerably safe in this position. When he had fired the three shots, he stopped and looked at me. I could not help noticing that his face wore an unusual aspect. Though he was at play, engaged in what would have been exceedingly exciting sport to a boy of my simple tastes, he did not appear to enjoy it. To be entirely candid, he looked ugly, and seemed to have no interest whatever in his game.
Mr. Waddie Wimpleton could not only look ugly, but he could be ugly—as ugly as sin itself. Only the day before he had been concerned in an awful row on board of a canal boat, which lay at the pier a dozen rods from the spot where he was shooting. The boat had brought down a load of coal for the use of the steam mill, and, having discharged hercargo, was waiting till a fleet should be gathered of sufficient numbers to employ a small steamer to tow them up the lake. Mr. Waddie had gone on board. The owner’s family, according to the custom, lived in the cabin, and the young gentleman had employed his leisure moments in teasing the skipper’s daughter, a pretty and spirited girl of his own age. She answered his taunting speech with so much vim that Mr. Waddie got mad, and absolutely insulted her, using language which no gentleman would use in the presence of a female.
At this point her father interfered, and reproved the nice young man so sharply, and withal so justly, that Waddie’s wrath turned from the daughter to the parent, and in his anger he picked up a piece of coal and hurled it at the honest skipper’s head. The latter, being the independent owner and master of the canal boat, and also an American citizen with certain unalienable rights, dodged the missile, and resented the impudence by seizing the young scion of an influential house by the collar of his coat, and after giving him a thorough shaking, much to the discomfiture of his purple and fine linen, threw himon the pier, very much as a Scotch terrier disposes of a rat after he has sufficiently mauled him.
Mr. Waddie was not accustomed to this sort of treatment. Whatever he did in Centreport, and especially about his father’s estate and the steam mills, no one thought of opposing him. If he set any one’s shed on fire, shot anybody’s cow, or did other mischief, the only remedy was to carry a bill of damages to the young gentleman’s father; and then, though the claim was for double the value of the cow or the shed, the fond parent paid it without murmuring. No one had ever thought of taking satisfaction for injuries by laying violent hands on the scion.
But the worthy captain of the canal boat, though he knew Colonel Wimpleton very well, had not learned to appraise an insult to him or his family in dollars and cents. The “young rascal,” as he profanely called the young gentleman, had insulted his daughter, had used vile and unbecoming language to her, and, if he had had a cowhide in his hand at the time, he would have used it unmercifully upon the soft skin of the dainty scion. He had no weapon but in his strong arms. Mr. Waddie had been madeto feel the weight of his muscle, and to see more stars than often twinkled over the tranquil surface of Lake Ucayga.
Perhaps, if the indignant skipper of the canal boat had known Mr. Waddie better, he would have been disposed to moderate his wrath, and to have chosen a less objectionable mode of chastising his victim; though on this point I am not clear, for he was an American citizen, and an unprovoked insult to his daughter was more than he could patiently endure.
Mr. Waddie struck the pier on his “beam ends.” I beg to inform my readers that I am a fresh-water sailor, and from the force of habit sometimes indulge in salt expressions. In the rapid evolutions which he had been compelled to make under the energetic treatment of the stalwart skipper, his ideas were considerably “mixed.” His body had performed so many unwonted and involuntary gyrations, that his muscles and limbs had been twisted into an aching condition. Besides, he struck the planks, whereof the pier was composed, so heavily, that the shock jounced from his body almost all the breath which had not been expendedin the gust of passion preceding the final catastrophe.
The scion lay on the pier like a branch detached from the parent tree; for if he realized anything in that moment of defeat and disaster, it was that not even his father’s influence had, on this occasion, saved him from deserved retribution. He must have felt for the instant like one alone in the world. Mr. Waddie was ugly, as I have before suggested. The dose which had just been administered to him needed to be repeated many times, in order to effect a radical cure of his besetting sin. He was well punished, but unfortunately his antecedents had not been such as to prepare him for the remedial agency. It did him no good.
Mr. Waddie lay upon the pier roaring like a bull. According to the legends of his childhood, some one ought to come and pick him up; some one ought to appear and mollify his rage, by promising summary vengeance upon the “naughty man” who had upset his philosophy, and almost riven his joints asunder. But no one came. His father and mother were not within the hearing of his voice—no onebut myself and the irate skipper and his family. The young gentleman lay on the pier and roared. All the traditions of the past were falsified, for no one came to his aid. I did not consider it my duty to meddle, under the circumstances, and the skipper would sooner have shaken him again than undone the good deed he had accomplished.
As no one came to comfort him, Mr. Waddie roared till he was tired of roaring—till the breath came back to his body, and the full measure of ugliness came back to his mind. He got up. He walked down to the side of the canal boat, where the honest captain was sitting composedly on his stool. Mr. Waddie stormed furiously; Mr. Waddie even swore violently. Mr. Waddie inquired, in heated terms, if the honest skipper knew who he was.
The honest skipper did not care who he was. He was an “unlicked cub.” No man or boy should insult his “darter” without as heavy a thrashing as he felt able to give him; and if the young gentleman gave him any more “sarse,” he would just step ashore and dip him a few times in the lake, just by way of cooling his heated blood, and giving him a lesson in good manners.
Mr. Waddie had already tasted the quality of the skipper’s muscle, and he slowly retreated from the pier; but as he went, he vowed vengeance upon the author of his disaster. As he passed the spot where I was stopping a leak in an old skiff belonging to my father, he repeated his threats, and I felt confident at the time that Mr. Waddie intended to annihilate the honest skipper at the first convenient opportunity.