CHAPTER III.WOLF’S FATHER.The grove into which I had retreated was on the border of Colonel Wimpleton’s estate, and in its friendly covert I made my way to the road which led to the steamboat wharf. I put the pistol into my breast pocket, intending, of course, to give it back to Waddie when I saw him again. Just then I heard the whistle of the steamer, and hastened to the pier.I was now far enough away from the scene of the explosion to be out of the reach of suspicious circumstances, and I had an opportunity to consider my relations to the startling event which had just transpired. I could not make up my mind whether Mr. Waddie had been afraid to pull the string which was to produce the blow-up, or whether he wished to implicate me in the affair. If he had not been utterlywanting in all the principles of boy-honor, I should not have suspected him of the latter. I could not attribute his conduct to a lack of brute courage, for he had finally pulled the string, though it was in my hands at the time he did so. But it was of no great consequence what his motives were. I had taken no part in the blowing up of the honest skipper’s boat, and did not know what the programme was until the explosion came off. I felt that I was all right, therefore, especially as I had escaped from the spot without being seen by any one.After the catastrophe had occurred, Waddie had rudely asked me to see what I had done. I had taken the trouble to deny my own personal agency in the affair, but he had finally insisted that I pulled the string. This indicated a purpose on his part. I was in some manner mixed up in the matter; but, as I had no grudge against the honest skipper, I could not see why any person should be willing to believe Waddie, even if he did declare that I was engaged in the mischief. But above and beyond all other considerations, I felt that I was not guilty, and it was not proper that an honest young manlike me should bother his head about contingencies, and situations, and suspicions. It was enough to be free from guilt, and I was content to let the appearances take care of themselves.I found my father on the pier when I arrived. He was dressed in his best clothes, and looked like the solid, substantial man that he was. He could not very well be genteel in his appearance, for the smoke and oil of his occupation clung to him, even when he wore his holiday suit. I have noticed that men of his calling—and my own for some years—find it almost if not quite impossible to get rid of a certain professional aspect which clings to them. I have almost always been able to tell an engineer when I see one. There is something in the calling which goes with the man wherever he goes.Though my father was not, and could not be, genteel, I was not ashamed of him. On the contrary, I was very proud of him, and proud of the professional aspect he wore. His look and manner had a savor of engines and machinery, which I tried to obtain for myself. When I was going to have any new clothes, I always insisted that they should beblue, because my father never wore any other color; and I used to think, though I had not yet been thoroughly steeped in oil and smoke, that I was not very unlike an engineer.Having acknowledged the possession of this pride of occupation, I ought to explain where I got it. It was not a mere vanity with me, for I desired to look like an engineer because I was one. My father and mother had been good parents to me, and had proper notions in regard to my present and future welfare. I was sixteen years old, and had been at school all the time, summer and winter, until the spring of the year in which my story opens. I do not like to be egotistical, but I must say—since there is no one else to say it for me—that I was considered a very good scholar. I had just graduated at the Wimpleton Institute, where I had taken a high rank. I had particularly distinguished myself in natural philosophy and chemistry, because these studies were nearer to my heart than any other.I was my father’s only boy, and he had always manifested a peculiar interest in me. Even beforeI was old enough to go to school, while we lived on the banks of the Hudson, my father was in the habit of taking me into the engine-room with him. I used to ask him hundreds of childish questions about the machinery, whose answers I was not old enough to understand; but, as I grew in years and mental power, the questions were repeated, and so carefully explained, that, before I ever read a description of the steam-engine, I had a very tolerable idea of the principles upon which it was constructed, and knew its mechanical structure.When I was old enough to read and understand books, the steam-engine became the study of my life. I not only studied its philosophy in school, but my father had quite a little library of books relating to the subject, which I had read a great many times, and whose contents I had considered with the utmost care. A large portion of my spare time was spent in the engine-room at the mills. I had even run the machine for a week when my father was sick.I had gone farther than this in the study of my favorite theme. As an engineer, my father was wellacquainted with all of the men of the same calling in the steamboats on the lake, and with some of them on the locomotives which ran on the railroad through Ucayga, at the foot of the lake. When our family paid a visit to our former residence on the Hudson, I rode on the engine all the way, and made a practical study of the locomotive. I flattered myself I could run the machine as well as the best of them. Christy Holgate was the engineer of the steamer now coming up to the pier, and under his instruction I had mastered the mysteries of the marine engine, with which I was already acquainted in theory, after much study of the subject in the books.I did not pretend to know anything but the steam-engine, and I thought I understood that pretty well. My father thought so too, which very much strengthened my confidence in my own ability. I am sorry I have not some one else to tell my story for me, for it is very disagreeable to feel obliged to say so much about myself. I hope my friends will not think ill of me on this account, for they will see that I can’t help saying it, for mystory would seem monstrously impossible without this explanation.“Wolf, what was that noise down by the mill, a little while ago?” asked my father, as I joined him at the wharf.“The canal boat at the mill pier was blown up,” I replied, with some embarrassment.“Blown up!” exclaimed he.“Yes, sir.”“They were blowing rocks back of the mill, and I thought they must have set off a seam-blast; but the noise did not seem to be in the direction of the quarry. I don’t see how the canal boat could have blown up. It wasn’t the water that blew her up. Do you know anything about it, Wolf?”“Yes, sir; I know a good deal more about it than I wish I did,” I answered, for my father had always been fair and square with me, and I should as soon have thought of cutting off my own nose as telling him a falsehood.“What do you know, Wolf?” he asked, with a look which betokened a rather painful interest in the nature of the answer. “I hope there wan’t any mischief about it.”“It was all mischief.”“Who did it? Not you, I hope.”“No, sir; I did not know anything about it till the boat blew up. Waddie Wimpleton did it.”“Of course he did,” said my father, nodding his head significantly. “Did you see him do it?”In reply I told the whole story, after we had gone on board of the steamer, giving every particular as minutely as though I had been a witness in a murder trial.“I heard Waddie had had a row with the captain of the canal boat,” added my father, who seemed to be vexed and disturbed more than I thought the occasion required, as he could not but see that I had no guilty knowledge of the conspiracy. “The young rascal must have stolen the powder to be used for blasting. Well, his father can pay the damages, as he has done a hundred times before; and I suppose it will be all right then.”We went into the engine-room, and took seats with Christy Holgate, who manifested no little interest in the affair of the morning.“The little villain intends to have you mixed upin the scrape somehow, Wolf,” continued my father, who could not turn his attention from the subject.“I don’t care if he does. I didn’t do anything, and I’m willing to face the music,” I replied, confidently. “I took his pistol away from him to keep him from shooting me; but I mean to give it back to him as soon as we return.”“I hope it will be all right, Wolf,” said my father, anxiously.“Your boy ain’t to blame, Ralph,” added Christy, the engineer.“I know he isn’t; but Colonel Wimpleton is the worst man to get along with in the world when Waddie gets into a scrape with other boys. He thinks the little villain is an angel, and if he ever does any mischief he is led away by bad boys. Well, no matter; I am glad this thing takes place to-day instead of last week.”“Why so, father?” I asked.“Don’t you know what I am going up to Ucayga for, this morning?”“No, sir; I haven’t heard.”“Well, I talked it over long enough with your mother this morning.”“I wasn’t there.”“I’ll tell you, Wolf,” replied my father, throwing one leg over the other, and looking particularly well satisfied with himself and all the rest of mankind. “When we first went to Centreport, I bought the place we live on of Colonel Wimpleton. I gave him one thousand down, and a note, secured by mortgage, for two thousand more. I think the place, to-day, is worth four thousand dollars.”“All of that,” added Christy.“Well, I’ve been saving up all my spare money ever since to pay off that mortgage, which expires next week. I have got the whole amount, and four hundred dollars more, in the bank at Ucayga, and I’m going to take it out to-day, and pay up. That’s what’s the matter, Wolf; but I don’t quite like this row with Waddie.”Christy listened with quite as much interest as I did to the story of my father.
WOLF’S FATHER.
The grove into which I had retreated was on the border of Colonel Wimpleton’s estate, and in its friendly covert I made my way to the road which led to the steamboat wharf. I put the pistol into my breast pocket, intending, of course, to give it back to Waddie when I saw him again. Just then I heard the whistle of the steamer, and hastened to the pier.
I was now far enough away from the scene of the explosion to be out of the reach of suspicious circumstances, and I had an opportunity to consider my relations to the startling event which had just transpired. I could not make up my mind whether Mr. Waddie had been afraid to pull the string which was to produce the blow-up, or whether he wished to implicate me in the affair. If he had not been utterlywanting in all the principles of boy-honor, I should not have suspected him of the latter. I could not attribute his conduct to a lack of brute courage, for he had finally pulled the string, though it was in my hands at the time he did so. But it was of no great consequence what his motives were. I had taken no part in the blowing up of the honest skipper’s boat, and did not know what the programme was until the explosion came off. I felt that I was all right, therefore, especially as I had escaped from the spot without being seen by any one.
After the catastrophe had occurred, Waddie had rudely asked me to see what I had done. I had taken the trouble to deny my own personal agency in the affair, but he had finally insisted that I pulled the string. This indicated a purpose on his part. I was in some manner mixed up in the matter; but, as I had no grudge against the honest skipper, I could not see why any person should be willing to believe Waddie, even if he did declare that I was engaged in the mischief. But above and beyond all other considerations, I felt that I was not guilty, and it was not proper that an honest young manlike me should bother his head about contingencies, and situations, and suspicions. It was enough to be free from guilt, and I was content to let the appearances take care of themselves.
I found my father on the pier when I arrived. He was dressed in his best clothes, and looked like the solid, substantial man that he was. He could not very well be genteel in his appearance, for the smoke and oil of his occupation clung to him, even when he wore his holiday suit. I have noticed that men of his calling—and my own for some years—find it almost if not quite impossible to get rid of a certain professional aspect which clings to them. I have almost always been able to tell an engineer when I see one. There is something in the calling which goes with the man wherever he goes.
Though my father was not, and could not be, genteel, I was not ashamed of him. On the contrary, I was very proud of him, and proud of the professional aspect he wore. His look and manner had a savor of engines and machinery, which I tried to obtain for myself. When I was going to have any new clothes, I always insisted that they should beblue, because my father never wore any other color; and I used to think, though I had not yet been thoroughly steeped in oil and smoke, that I was not very unlike an engineer.
Having acknowledged the possession of this pride of occupation, I ought to explain where I got it. It was not a mere vanity with me, for I desired to look like an engineer because I was one. My father and mother had been good parents to me, and had proper notions in regard to my present and future welfare. I was sixteen years old, and had been at school all the time, summer and winter, until the spring of the year in which my story opens. I do not like to be egotistical, but I must say—since there is no one else to say it for me—that I was considered a very good scholar. I had just graduated at the Wimpleton Institute, where I had taken a high rank. I had particularly distinguished myself in natural philosophy and chemistry, because these studies were nearer to my heart than any other.
I was my father’s only boy, and he had always manifested a peculiar interest in me. Even beforeI was old enough to go to school, while we lived on the banks of the Hudson, my father was in the habit of taking me into the engine-room with him. I used to ask him hundreds of childish questions about the machinery, whose answers I was not old enough to understand; but, as I grew in years and mental power, the questions were repeated, and so carefully explained, that, before I ever read a description of the steam-engine, I had a very tolerable idea of the principles upon which it was constructed, and knew its mechanical structure.
When I was old enough to read and understand books, the steam-engine became the study of my life. I not only studied its philosophy in school, but my father had quite a little library of books relating to the subject, which I had read a great many times, and whose contents I had considered with the utmost care. A large portion of my spare time was spent in the engine-room at the mills. I had even run the machine for a week when my father was sick.
I had gone farther than this in the study of my favorite theme. As an engineer, my father was wellacquainted with all of the men of the same calling in the steamboats on the lake, and with some of them on the locomotives which ran on the railroad through Ucayga, at the foot of the lake. When our family paid a visit to our former residence on the Hudson, I rode on the engine all the way, and made a practical study of the locomotive. I flattered myself I could run the machine as well as the best of them. Christy Holgate was the engineer of the steamer now coming up to the pier, and under his instruction I had mastered the mysteries of the marine engine, with which I was already acquainted in theory, after much study of the subject in the books.
I did not pretend to know anything but the steam-engine, and I thought I understood that pretty well. My father thought so too, which very much strengthened my confidence in my own ability. I am sorry I have not some one else to tell my story for me, for it is very disagreeable to feel obliged to say so much about myself. I hope my friends will not think ill of me on this account, for they will see that I can’t help saying it, for mystory would seem monstrously impossible without this explanation.
“Wolf, what was that noise down by the mill, a little while ago?” asked my father, as I joined him at the wharf.
“The canal boat at the mill pier was blown up,” I replied, with some embarrassment.
“Blown up!” exclaimed he.
“Yes, sir.”
“They were blowing rocks back of the mill, and I thought they must have set off a seam-blast; but the noise did not seem to be in the direction of the quarry. I don’t see how the canal boat could have blown up. It wasn’t the water that blew her up. Do you know anything about it, Wolf?”
“Yes, sir; I know a good deal more about it than I wish I did,” I answered, for my father had always been fair and square with me, and I should as soon have thought of cutting off my own nose as telling him a falsehood.
“What do you know, Wolf?” he asked, with a look which betokened a rather painful interest in the nature of the answer. “I hope there wan’t any mischief about it.”
“It was all mischief.”
“Who did it? Not you, I hope.”
“No, sir; I did not know anything about it till the boat blew up. Waddie Wimpleton did it.”
“Of course he did,” said my father, nodding his head significantly. “Did you see him do it?”
In reply I told the whole story, after we had gone on board of the steamer, giving every particular as minutely as though I had been a witness in a murder trial.
“I heard Waddie had had a row with the captain of the canal boat,” added my father, who seemed to be vexed and disturbed more than I thought the occasion required, as he could not but see that I had no guilty knowledge of the conspiracy. “The young rascal must have stolen the powder to be used for blasting. Well, his father can pay the damages, as he has done a hundred times before; and I suppose it will be all right then.”
We went into the engine-room, and took seats with Christy Holgate, who manifested no little interest in the affair of the morning.
“The little villain intends to have you mixed upin the scrape somehow, Wolf,” continued my father, who could not turn his attention from the subject.
“I don’t care if he does. I didn’t do anything, and I’m willing to face the music,” I replied, confidently. “I took his pistol away from him to keep him from shooting me; but I mean to give it back to him as soon as we return.”
“I hope it will be all right, Wolf,” said my father, anxiously.
“Your boy ain’t to blame, Ralph,” added Christy, the engineer.
“I know he isn’t; but Colonel Wimpleton is the worst man to get along with in the world when Waddie gets into a scrape with other boys. He thinks the little villain is an angel, and if he ever does any mischief he is led away by bad boys. Well, no matter; I am glad this thing takes place to-day instead of last week.”
“Why so, father?” I asked.
“Don’t you know what I am going up to Ucayga for, this morning?”
“No, sir; I haven’t heard.”
“Well, I talked it over long enough with your mother this morning.”
“I wasn’t there.”
“I’ll tell you, Wolf,” replied my father, throwing one leg over the other, and looking particularly well satisfied with himself and all the rest of mankind. “When we first went to Centreport, I bought the place we live on of Colonel Wimpleton. I gave him one thousand down, and a note, secured by mortgage, for two thousand more. I think the place, to-day, is worth four thousand dollars.”
“All of that,” added Christy.
“Well, I’ve been saving up all my spare money ever since to pay off that mortgage, which expires next week. I have got the whole amount, and four hundred dollars more, in the bank at Ucayga, and I’m going to take it out to-day, and pay up. That’s what’s the matter, Wolf; but I don’t quite like this row with Waddie.”
Christy listened with quite as much interest as I did to the story of my father.