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
steamboat landing. 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 that I 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, and they 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 I then 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. Choosing my 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.
[Illustration: THE EXPLOSION.--Page 30.]