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.