CHAPTER II.A TREMENDOUS EXPLOSION.Mr. Waddie fired three shots from his revolver, and then turned to look at me; and he looked ugly.My father’s house was near the spot. I had been planting peas in the garden all the morning, and I had observed that the young gentleman was unusually steadfast in his occupations. He had raised his kite, and kept it up for half an hour. Then he had fastened the string to the target, and “run it down.” Occasionally I glanced at him to see what he was about. After he had brought the kite down, I saw him bringing it up to the target. Then he went on board of the canal boat at the pier. The honest skipper had locked up the cabin, and gone with his family to visit his relations at Ruoara, eight miles below Centreport.Mr. Waddie appeared to be making himself at home on board. He went down into the hold, and remained there a considerable time. After the savage threats I had heard him make the day before, it would not have surprised me to see the flames rising from the honest skipper’s craft; but nothing of this kind had yet occurred, though I was fully satisfied that the scion was plotting mischief. After he had been on board half an hour, he returned to the target and popped away a while at it, though, as I have before observed, he did not seem to take any particular interest in the amusement.On this day the flour mills were not at work, having suspended operations to put in a new boiler. After everything was ready for it the boiler did not arrive, and all hands were obliged to take a vacation, to await its coming. The mill was, therefore, deserted, and my father had a little time to attend to his own affairs. He was going down to Ucayga, at the foot of the lake, upon business, which I shall have occasion to explain by and by. He had gone up to the town, and as he had given me permission to go with him, I was to meet him at the steamboatlanding. I was on my way to this point when I paused to observe Mr. Waddie’s shooting.A revolver is a very pretty toy for a boy of fifteen. My father would as soon have thought of giving me a live rattlesnake for a pet, as a pistol for a plaything. At the same time, I understood and appreciated the instrument, and should have been proud and happy as the possessor of it. Mr. Waddie, in one of his gracious moments, had permitted me to fire this pistol, and I flattered myself that I could handle it much better than he. He never did anything well, and therefore he did not shoot well. As I stood there, at a respectful distance, admiring the splendid weapon, I envied him the fun which might be got out of it, though I was very sure he did not make the most of it.He suspended his operations, and looked at me. I hoped he was going to give me an invitation to shoot; and I felt that, if he did, I could soon spoil the enigmatical eye that glared at the shooter from the target.“What do you want, Wolf?” said he.Perhaps it is not necessary for me to explain thatI was not actually a wolf; but it is necessary for me to say that this savage appellation was the name by which I was usually known and called in Centreport. My father’s name was Ralph Penniman, and at the time I was born he lived on the banks of the Hudson. He had taken such a strong fancy for some of the creations of Washington Irving, that he insisted, in spite of an earnest protest on the part of my mother, upon calling me Wolfert, after one of the distinguished author’s well-known characters, who obtained a great deal of money where he least expected to find it. In vain my mother pleaded that the only possible nickname—in a land where nicknames were as inevitable as the baby’s teeth—would be Wolf. My father continued to insist, having no particular objection to the odious name. I was called Wolfert, and I shall be Wolf as long as I live,—perhaps after I die, if the width of my tomb-stone compels the lapidary to abbreviate my name.“What do you want, Wolf?” asked Mr. Waddie in a surly tone, which led me to think that I was an intruder.“Nothing,” I replied; and knowing how easy it was to get up a quarrel with the scion, I began to move on.“Come here; I want you,” added Mr. Waddie, in a tone which seemed to leave no alternative but obedience.“I can’t. I have to go to the steamboat wharf,” I ventured to suggest.“Oh, come here—will you? I won’t keep you but a minute.”Mr. Waddie was almost invariably imperious; but now he used a coaxing tone, which I could not resist. I could not help seeing that there was something about him which was strange and unnatural—a forced expression and manner, that it bothered me to explain. If the young gentleman was engaged in any mischief, he was sufficiently accustomed to it to do without any of the embarrassment which distinguished his present demeanor. But I could not see anything wrong, and he did not appear to be engaged in any conspiracy against the canal boat, or the honest skipper in command of it. Appearances, however, are often delusive, andthey could hardly be otherwise when Mr. Waddie attempted to look amiable and conciliatory.“You are a good fellow, Wolf,” he added.I knew that before, and the intelligence was no news to me; yet the condescension of the scion was marvellous in the extreme, and I wondered what was going to happen, quite sure that something extraordinary was about to transpire.“What do you want of me, Waddie?” I asked, curiously.“I’m going up to the steamboat wharf, and I want you to help me wind up my kite-line,” he added, bustling about as though he meant what he said.“How came your kite-line over there when your kite is up here?”“Oh, I untied it, and brought it up here so as not to tear the kite—that’s all. Take hold of the string and pull it in.”I picked up the line. As I did so, Mr. Waddie gave a kind of a start, and held his elbow up at the side of his head. But I did not pull on the line, for, to tell the honest truth, I was afraid he was up to some trick.“Why don’t you haul it in, you fool?” demanded Waddie, with more excitement than the occasion seemed to require.“I can’t stop to wind it up, Waddie; I’m in a hurry. My father is waiting for me up at the wharf.”“It won’t take but a couple of minutes; pull in, and I’ll give you three shots with this revolver,” he added.“I can’t stay to fire the shots now.”“Yes, you can! Come, pull in, and don’t be all day about it,” continued he, impatiently.I was almost sure he was up to some trick; he was earnest and excited. The longer I stayed, the worse it would be for me, and I dropped the string.“Pick it up again!” shouted Waddie; and at the same moment he fired off the pistol.I did pick it up; for though the pistol ball did not come very near me, I heard it whistle through the air, and as I had never been under fire, I am willing to confess that it frightened me. I do not think Waddie meant to hit me when he fired, but this consciousness made me all the more fearful for my own safety.“Now, pull in, you ninny! If you don’t mind when your betters speak to you, I’ll put one of these bullets into you.”“Do you mean to kill me, Waddie?” I asked.“No, not if you mind what I say to you.”“But I tell you my father is waiting for me at the steamboat wharf.”“No matter if he is; he’s paid for waiting when I want you. Why don’t you pull in?”I don’t know exactly why I did not pull in. He threatened to shoot me, on the one hand, if I didn’t pull in, and I felt as though something would happen, on the other hand, if I did pull in. It was not improbable to me, just then, that the young scion had planted a torpedo in the ground, which was to be touched off by pulling the string, and which was to send me flying up into the air. I would have given something handsome, at that moment, for ten rods of space between me and the imperative young scion at my side.“Why don’t you pull?” yelled he, out of patience with me at last.Springing forward, he grasped the string which Ithen held in my hand, and gave it a smart jerk, at the same time pointing the revolver at my head, as if to prevent my sudden departure. The pulling of the kite-string more than realized my expectations. The very earth was shaken beneath me, and the lake trembled under the shock that followed. High in air, from the pier, a dozen rods distant, rose, in ten thousand fragments, the canal boat of the honest skipper. By some trickery, which I could not understand, the gaily-painted craft had been blown up by the pulling of that kite-string.I could not see through it; in fact, I was so utterly confounded by the noise, smoke, and dust of the explosion, that I did not try to see through it. I was amazed and confused, bewildered and paralyzed. The fragments of the boat had been scattered in a shower upon us, but none of them were large enough to do us any serious injury.My first thought was a sentiment of admiration at the diabolical ingenuity of Mr. Waddie. It was clear enough now that this was the revenge of the young gentleman upon the skipper for the punishment he had inflicted upon him. By some contrivance,not yet explained, the young reprobate had ignited a quantity of powder, placed in the hold of the boat, with the kite-line. The honest skipper seemed to be the victim now.“Now see what you have done!” exclaimed Mr. Waddie, when he, as well as I, had in some measure recovered from the shock.“I didn’t do it,” I replied, indignantly.“Yes, you did, you fool! Didn’t you pull the string?”“Not much! You pulled it yourself,” I protested.“At any rate, we are both of us in a very sweet scrape.”“I’m not in it; I didn’t know anything about it, and I’m not going to stay here any longer,” I retorted, moving off.“Stop, Wolf!”He pointed the pistol at me again. I had had about enough of this sort of thing, and I walked back to him.“Now, Wolf, if you want to”—I did not wait for him to say any more. Choosingmy time, I sprang upon him, wrested the pistol from his grasp, threw him over backwards, and made good my retreat to a grove near the spot, just as the people were hurrying down to ascertain the cause of the explosion.THE EXPLOSION.—Page 30.
A TREMENDOUS EXPLOSION.
Mr. Waddie fired three shots from his revolver, and then turned to look at me; and he looked ugly.
My father’s house was near the spot. I had been planting peas in the garden all the morning, and I had observed that the young gentleman was unusually steadfast in his occupations. He had raised his kite, and kept it up for half an hour. Then he had fastened the string to the target, and “run it down.” Occasionally I glanced at him to see what he was about. After he had brought the kite down, I saw him bringing it up to the target. Then he went on board of the canal boat at the pier. The honest skipper had locked up the cabin, and gone with his family to visit his relations at Ruoara, eight miles below Centreport.
Mr. Waddie appeared to be making himself at home on board. He went down into the hold, and remained there a considerable time. After the savage threats I had heard him make the day before, it would not have surprised me to see the flames rising from the honest skipper’s craft; but nothing of this kind had yet occurred, though I was fully satisfied that the scion was plotting mischief. After he had been on board half an hour, he returned to the target and popped away a while at it, though, as I have before observed, he did not seem to take any particular interest in the amusement.
On this day the flour mills were not at work, having suspended operations to put in a new boiler. After everything was ready for it the boiler did not arrive, and all hands were obliged to take a vacation, to await its coming. The mill was, therefore, deserted, and my father had a little time to attend to his own affairs. He was going down to Ucayga, at the foot of the lake, upon business, which I shall have occasion to explain by and by. He had gone up to the town, and as he had given me permission to go with him, I was to meet him at the steamboatlanding. I was on my way to this point when I paused to observe Mr. Waddie’s shooting.
A revolver is a very pretty toy for a boy of fifteen. My father would as soon have thought of giving me a live rattlesnake for a pet, as a pistol for a plaything. At the same time, I understood and appreciated the instrument, and should have been proud and happy as the possessor of it. Mr. Waddie, in one of his gracious moments, had permitted me to fire this pistol, and I flattered myself that I could handle it much better than he. He never did anything well, and therefore he did not shoot well. As I stood there, at a respectful distance, admiring the splendid weapon, I envied him the fun which might be got out of it, though I was very sure he did not make the most of it.
He suspended his operations, and looked at me. I hoped he was going to give me an invitation to shoot; and I felt that, if he did, I could soon spoil the enigmatical eye that glared at the shooter from the target.
“What do you want, Wolf?” said he.
Perhaps it is not necessary for me to explain thatI was not actually a wolf; but it is necessary for me to say that this savage appellation was the name by which I was usually known and called in Centreport. My father’s name was Ralph Penniman, and at the time I was born he lived on the banks of the Hudson. He had taken such a strong fancy for some of the creations of Washington Irving, that he insisted, in spite of an earnest protest on the part of my mother, upon calling me Wolfert, after one of the distinguished author’s well-known characters, who obtained a great deal of money where he least expected to find it. In vain my mother pleaded that the only possible nickname—in a land where nicknames were as inevitable as the baby’s teeth—would be Wolf. My father continued to insist, having no particular objection to the odious name. I was called Wolfert, and I shall be Wolf as long as I live,—perhaps after I die, if the width of my tomb-stone compels the lapidary to abbreviate my name.
“What do you want, Wolf?” asked Mr. Waddie in a surly tone, which led me to think that I was an intruder.
“Nothing,” I replied; and knowing how easy it was to get up a quarrel with the scion, I began to move on.
“Come here; I want you,” added Mr. Waddie, in a tone which seemed to leave no alternative but obedience.
“I can’t. I have to go to the steamboat wharf,” I ventured to suggest.
“Oh, come here—will you? I won’t keep you but a minute.”
Mr. Waddie was almost invariably imperious; but now he used a coaxing tone, which I could not resist. I could not help seeing that there was something about him which was strange and unnatural—a forced expression and manner, that it bothered me to explain. If the young gentleman was engaged in any mischief, he was sufficiently accustomed to it to do without any of the embarrassment which distinguished his present demeanor. But I could not see anything wrong, and he did not appear to be engaged in any conspiracy against the canal boat, or the honest skipper in command of it. Appearances, however, are often delusive, andthey could hardly be otherwise when Mr. Waddie attempted to look amiable and conciliatory.
“You are a good fellow, Wolf,” he added.
I knew that before, and the intelligence was no news to me; yet the condescension of the scion was marvellous in the extreme, and I wondered what was going to happen, quite sure that something extraordinary was about to transpire.
“What do you want of me, Waddie?” I asked, curiously.
“I’m going up to the steamboat wharf, and I want you to help me wind up my kite-line,” he added, bustling about as though he meant what he said.
“How came your kite-line over there when your kite is up here?”
“Oh, I untied it, and brought it up here so as not to tear the kite—that’s all. Take hold of the string and pull it in.”
I picked up the line. As I did so, Mr. Waddie gave a kind of a start, and held his elbow up at the side of his head. But I did not pull on the line, for, to tell the honest truth, I was afraid he was up to some trick.
“Why don’t you haul it in, you fool?” demanded Waddie, with more excitement than the occasion seemed to require.
“I can’t stop to wind it up, Waddie; I’m in a hurry. My father is waiting for me up at the wharf.”
“It won’t take but a couple of minutes; pull in, and I’ll give you three shots with this revolver,” he added.
“I can’t stay to fire the shots now.”
“Yes, you can! Come, pull in, and don’t be all day about it,” continued he, impatiently.
I was almost sure he was up to some trick; he was earnest and excited. The longer I stayed, the worse it would be for me, and I dropped the string.
“Pick it up again!” shouted Waddie; and at the same moment he fired off the pistol.
I did pick it up; for though the pistol ball did not come very near me, I heard it whistle through the air, and as I had never been under fire, I am willing to confess that it frightened me. I do not think Waddie meant to hit me when he fired, but this consciousness made me all the more fearful for my own safety.
“Now, pull in, you ninny! If you don’t mind when your betters speak to you, I’ll put one of these bullets into you.”
“Do you mean to kill me, Waddie?” I asked.
“No, not if you mind what I say to you.”
“But I tell you my father is waiting for me at the steamboat wharf.”
“No matter if he is; he’s paid for waiting when I want you. Why don’t you pull in?”
I don’t know exactly why I did not pull in. He threatened to shoot me, on the one hand, if I didn’t pull in, and I felt as though something would happen, on the other hand, if I did pull in. It was not improbable to me, just then, that the young scion had planted a torpedo in the ground, which was to be touched off by pulling the string, and which was to send me flying up into the air. I would have given something handsome, at that moment, for ten rods of space between me and the imperative young scion at my side.
“Why don’t you pull?” yelled he, out of patience with me at last.
Springing forward, he grasped the string which Ithen held in my hand, and gave it a smart jerk, at the same time pointing the revolver at my head, as if to prevent my sudden departure. The pulling of the kite-string more than realized my expectations. The very earth was shaken beneath me, and the lake trembled under the shock that followed. High in air, from the pier, a dozen rods distant, rose, in ten thousand fragments, the canal boat of the honest skipper. By some trickery, which I could not understand, the gaily-painted craft had been blown up by the pulling of that kite-string.
I could not see through it; in fact, I was so utterly confounded by the noise, smoke, and dust of the explosion, that I did not try to see through it. I was amazed and confused, bewildered and paralyzed. The fragments of the boat had been scattered in a shower upon us, but none of them were large enough to do us any serious injury.
My first thought was a sentiment of admiration at the diabolical ingenuity of Mr. Waddie. It was clear enough now that this was the revenge of the young gentleman upon the skipper for the punishment he had inflicted upon him. By some contrivance,not yet explained, the young reprobate had ignited a quantity of powder, placed in the hold of the boat, with the kite-line. The honest skipper seemed to be the victim now.
“Now see what you have done!” exclaimed Mr. Waddie, when he, as well as I, had in some measure recovered from the shock.
“I didn’t do it,” I replied, indignantly.
“Yes, you did, you fool! Didn’t you pull the string?”
“Not much! You pulled it yourself,” I protested.
“At any rate, we are both of us in a very sweet scrape.”
“I’m not in it; I didn’t know anything about it, and I’m not going to stay here any longer,” I retorted, moving off.
“Stop, Wolf!”
He pointed the pistol at me again. I had had about enough of this sort of thing, and I walked back to him.
“Now, Wolf, if you want to”—
I did not wait for him to say any more. Choosingmy time, I sprang upon him, wrested the pistol from his grasp, threw him over backwards, and made good my retreat to a grove near the spot, just as the people were hurrying down to ascertain the cause of the explosion.
THE EXPLOSION.—Page 30.
THE EXPLOSION.—Page 30.