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 utterly wanting 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 man like 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 be blue,
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 before I 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 well acquainted 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 my story 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 up in 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.