“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.”