THE EXPLOSION.—[Page 30].
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 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.