AMERICAN BOYS’ SERIES

The books selected for this series are all thoroughly American, by such favorite American authors of boys’ books as Oliver Optic, Elijah Kellogg, Prof. James de Mille, and others, now made for the first time at a largely reduced price, in order to bring them within the reach of all. Each volume complete in itself.

Uniform Cloth Binding Illustrated New and Attractive Dies Price per volume $1.00

1. Adrift in the Ice Fields By Capt. Chas. W. Hall
2. All Aboard or Life on the Lake By Oliver Optic
3. Ark of Elm Island By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
4. Arthur Brown the Young Captain By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
5. Boat Club, The, or the Bunkers of Rippleton By Oliver Optic
6. Boy Farmers of Elm Island, The By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
7. Boys of Grand Pré School By Prof. James de Mille
8. “B. O. W. C.” The By Prof. James de Mille
9. Brought to the Front or the Young Defenders By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
10. Burying the Hatchet or the Young Brave of the Delawares By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
11. Cast Away in the Cold By Dr. Isaac I. Hayes
12. Charlie Bell the Waif of Elm Island By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
13. Child of The Island Glen By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
14. Crossing the Quicksands By Samuel W. Cozzens
15. Cruise of the Casco By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
16. Fire in the Woods By Prof. James de Mille
17. Fisher Boys of Pleasant Cove By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
18. Forest Glen or the Mohawk’s Friendship By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
19. Good Old Times By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
20. Hardscrabble of Elm Island By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
21. Haste or Waste or the Young Pilot of Lake Champlain By Oliver Optic
22. Hope and Have By Oliver Optic
23. In School and Out or the Conquest of Richard Grant By Oliver Optic
24. John Godsoe’s Legacy By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
25. Just His Luck By Oliver Optic
26. Lion Ben of Elm Island By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
27. Little by Little or the Cruise of the Flyaway By Oliver Optic
28. Live Oak Boys or the Adventures of Richard Constable Afloat and Ashore By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
29. Lost in the Fog By Prof. James de Mille
30. Mission of Black Rifle or On the Trail By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
31. Now or Never or the Adventures of Bobby Bright By Oliver Optic
32. Poor and Proud or the Fortunes or Kate Redburn By Oliver Optic
33. Rich and Humble or the Mission of Bertha Grant By Oliver Optic
34. Sophomores of Radcliffe or James Trafton and His Boston Friends By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
35. Sowed by the Wind or the Poor Boy’s Fortune By Rev Elijah Kellogg
36. Spark of Genius or the College Life of James Trafton By Elijah Kellogg
37. Stout Heart or the Student from Over the Sea By Rev Elijah Kellogg
38. Strong Arm and a Mother’s Blessing By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
39. Treasure of the Sea By Prof. James de Mille
40. Try Again or the Trials and Triumphs of Harry West By Oliver Optic
41. Turning of the Tide or Radcliffe Rich and his Patients By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
42. Unseen Hand or James Renfew and His Boy Helpers By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
43. Watch and Wait or the Young Fugitives By Oliver Optic
44. Whispering Pine or the Graduates of Radcliffe By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
45. Winning His Spurs or Henry Morton’s First Trial By Rev Elijah Kellogg
46. Wolf Run or the Boys of the Wilderness By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
47. Work and Win or Noddy Newman on a Cruise By Oliver Optic
48. Young Deliverers of Pleasant Cove By Rev. Elijah Kellogg
49. Young Shipbuilders of Elm Island By Rev. Elijah Kellogg.
50. Young Trail Hunters By Samuel W. Cozzens

ADDED IN 1900

In 1899 we increased this immensely popular series of choice copyrighted books by representative American writers for the young to fifty titles. In 1900 we added the ten following well-known books, making an important addition to an already strong list:

1. Field and Forest or The Fortunes of a Farmer By Oliver Optic
2. Outward Bound or Young America Afloat By Oliver Optic
3. The Soldier Boy or Tom Somers in the Army By Oliver Optic
4. The Starry Flag or The Young Fisherman of Cape Ann By Oliver Optic
5. Through by Daylight or The Young Engineer of the Lake Shore Railroad By Oliver Optic
6. Cruises with Captain Bob around the Kitchen Fire By B. P. Shillaber (Mrs. Partington)
7. The Double-Runner Club or The Lively Boys of Rivertown By B. P. Shillaber (Mrs. Partington)
8. Ike Partington and His Friends or The Humors of a Human Boy By B. P. Shillaber (Mrs. Partington)
9. Locke Amsden the Schoolmaster By Judge D. P. Thompson
10. The Rangers By Judge D. P. Thompson

ADDED IN 1901

This year we still further increase this list, which has become standard throughout the country, by adding the ever-popular “Green Mountain Boys” and four volumes of “Oliver Optic,” “All Over the World Library,” especially timely books in view of the present interest in Asiatic matters.

1. The Green Mountain Boys By Judge D. P. Thompson
2. A Missing Million or The Adventures of Louis Belgrave By Oliver Optic
3. A Millionaire at Sixteen or The Cruise of the “Guardian Mother” By Oliver Optic
4. A Young Knight Errant or Cruising in the West Indies By Oliver Optic
5. Strange Sights Abroad or Adventures in European Waters By Oliver Optic

Lee and Shepard Publishers Boston

THE LAKE SHORE SERIES.

THROUGH BY DAYLIGHT;
OR,
THE YOUNG ENGINEER
OF THE
LAKE SHORE RAILROAD.

BY

OLIVER OPTIC

Author of “Army and Navy Stories,” “Great Western Series,” “Onward
and Upward Stories,” “Woodville Stories,” Famous “Boat-Club
Series,” “The Starry-Flag Series,” “Young America Abroad,”
“Lake-Shore Series,” “Riverdale Storybook,” “Yacht-Club
Series,” and “The Boat-Builder Series.”

BOSTON

LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by

WILLIAM T. ADAMS,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court

of the District of Massachusetts.

Copyright, 1897, by Alice Adams Russell.

All Rights Reserved.

Through by Daylight.

TO

My Young Friend,

JAMES ELLIOT BAKER,

This Book

IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.

PREFACE.

The Lake Shore Series, of which this book is the first volume, includes six stories, whose locality and principal characters are nearly the same, and which were originally published in Oliver Optic’s Magazine, Our Boys and Girls. The railroad, which is the basis of the incidents in the first and second volumes, was suggested by the experience of several young gentlemen in Ohio, who had formed a company, and transacted all the business of a railroad in regular form, for the purpose of obtaining a practical knowledge of the details of such a corporation. They issued certificates of shares, bonds, with interest coupons, elected officers, and appointed all the employees required for the management of a well-ordered railroad. The author is the fortunate possessor of one of the bonds of this company—“The Miami Valley Railroad.”

The young engineer is doubtless a smart boy; but so far as his mechanical skill is concerned, several counterparts of him have come to the knowledge of the writer. If he has an “old head,” he has a young heart, which he endeavors to keep pure and true. As he appears in this and the subsequent volumes of the series, the author is willing to commend him as an example of the moral and Christian hero, who cannot lead his imitators astray; for he loves truth and goodness, and is willing to forgive and serve his enemies.

Harrison Square, Mass.,

July 21, 1869.

CONTENTS.

THROUGH BY DAYLIGHT;

OR,

THE YOUNG ENGINEER OF THE LAKE-SHORE RAILROAD.

CHAPTER I.

MR. WADDIE WIMPLETON.

Pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, pop—six pops.

Mr. Waddie Wimpleton, an elegant young gentleman of fifteen, by all odds the nicest young man in Centreport, was firing at a mark with a revolver. It was a very beautiful revolver, too, silver-mounted, richly chased, and highly polished in all its parts, discharging six shots at each revolution, not often at the target, in the unskilful hands of Mr. Waddie, but sometimes near enough to indicate what the marksman was shooting at.

Even the target was quite an elaborate affair; and though Mr. Waddie had been shooting at it for a week, it was hardly damaged by the trial to which it had been subjected. It was two feet in diameter, having in its centre a tolerably correct resemblance of one of the optics of a bovine masculine; and this enigma, being literally interpreted, meant the bull’s eye, which Mr. Waddie was expected to hit, or at least to try to hit. Around it were several circles in black, red, yellow, green, and blue, each indicating a certain distance from the objective point of the shooter. There were a few holes in the target within these circles, but the central eye was not put out, and still glared defiance at the ambitious marksman.

Mr. Waddie Wimpleton had everything he wanted, and therefore never wanted anything he had. There was no end to the ponies, sail-boats, row-boats, guns, pistols, fishing-rods, and other sporting gear, which came into his possession, and of which he soon became weary. His father was as rich as an East-Indian prince, and Mr. Waddie being an only son, though there were two daughters who partially “put his nose out of joint,” his paternal parent had labored industriously to spoil the child from babyhood. I am forced to acknowledge that he succeeded even better than he intended.

Mr. Waddie was always waiting and watching for a new sensation. A magnificent kite, of party-colored silk, had evidently occupied his attention during the earlier hours of the morning, and it now lay neglected on the ground, the line stretched off in the direction of the lake. The young gentleman had become tired of the plaything, and when I approached him he was blazing away at the target with the revolver, at the rate of six shots in three seconds. I halted at a respectful distance from the marksman. He was not shooting at me, but I regarded this as the very reason why he would be likely to hit me. If he had been aiming at me, I should have approached him with more confidence.

Keeping well in the rear of the young gentleman, I came within hailing distance of him. I did not belong to the “upper-ten” of Centreport, and I could not be said to be familiarly acquainted with him. My father was the engineer in his father’s steam-flouring mills, and a person of my humble connections was of no account in his estimation. But I am forced to confess that I had not that awe and respect for Mr. Waddie which wealth and a lofty social position demand of the humble classes. I had the audacity to approach the young scion of an influential house; and it was audacious, considered in reference to his pistol, if not to his social position.

Pop, pop, pop, went the revolver again, as I placed myself about five rods in his rear, feeling tolerably safe in this position. When he had fired the three shots, he stopped and looked at me. I could not help noticing that his face wore an unusual aspect. Though he was at play, engaged in what would have been exceedingly exciting sport to a boy of my simple tastes, he did not appear to enjoy it. To be entirely candid, he looked ugly, and seemed to have no interest whatever in his game.

Mr. Waddie Wimpleton could not only look ugly, but he could be ugly—as ugly as sin itself. Only the day before he had been concerned in an awful row on board of a canal boat, which lay at the pier a dozen rods from the spot where he was shooting. The boat had brought down a load of coal for the use of the steam mill, and, having discharged her cargo, was waiting till a fleet should be gathered of sufficient numbers to employ a small steamer to tow them up the lake. Mr. Waddie had gone on board. The owner’s family, according to the custom, lived in the cabin, and the young gentleman had employed his leisure moments in teasing the skipper’s daughter, a pretty and spirited girl of his own age. She answered his taunting speech with so much vim that Mr. Waddie got mad, and absolutely insulted her, using language which no gentleman would use in the presence of a female.

At this point her father interfered, and reproved the nice young man so sharply, and withal so justly, that Waddie’s wrath turned from the daughter to the parent, and in his anger he picked up a piece of coal and hurled it at the honest skipper’s head. The latter, being the independent owner and master of the canal boat, and also an American citizen with certain unalienable rights, dodged the missile, and resented the impudence by seizing the young scion of an influential house by the collar of his coat, and after giving him a thorough shaking, much to the discomfiture of his purple and fine linen, threw him on the pier, very much as a Scotch terrier disposes of a rat after he has sufficiently mauled him.

Mr. Waddie was not accustomed to this sort of treatment. Whatever he did in Centreport, and especially about his father’s estate and the steam mills, no one thought of opposing him. If he set any one’s shed on fire, shot anybody’s cow, or did other mischief, the only remedy was to carry a bill of damages to the young gentleman’s father; and then, though the claim was for double the value of the cow or the shed, the fond parent paid it without murmuring. No one had ever thought of taking satisfaction for injuries by laying violent hands on the scion.

But the worthy captain of the canal boat, though he knew Colonel Wimpleton very well, had not learned to appraise an insult to him or his family in dollars and cents. The “young rascal,” as he profanely called the young gentleman, had insulted his daughter, had used vile and unbecoming language to her, and, if he had had a cowhide in his hand at the time, he would have used it unmercifully upon the soft skin of the dainty scion. He had no weapon but in his strong arms. Mr. Waddie had been made to feel the weight of his muscle, and to see more stars than often twinkled over the tranquil surface of Lake Ucayga.

Perhaps, if the indignant skipper of the canal boat had known Mr. Waddie better, he would have been disposed to moderate his wrath, and to have chosen a less objectionable mode of chastising his victim; though on this point I am not clear, for he was an American citizen, and an unprovoked insult to his daughter was more than he could patiently endure.

Mr. Waddie struck the pier on his “beam ends.” I beg to inform my readers that I am a fresh-water sailor, and from the force of habit sometimes indulge in salt expressions. In the rapid evolutions which he had been compelled to make under the energetic treatment of the stalwart skipper, his ideas were considerably “mixed.” His body had performed so many unwonted and involuntary gyrations, that his muscles and limbs had been twisted into an aching condition. Besides, he struck the planks, whereof the pier was composed, so heavily, that the shock jounced from his body almost all the breath which had not been expended in the gust of passion preceding the final catastrophe.

The scion lay on the pier like a branch detached from the parent tree; for if he realized anything in that moment of defeat and disaster, it was that not even his father’s influence had, on this occasion, saved him from deserved retribution. He must have felt for the instant like one alone in the world. Mr. Waddie was ugly, as I have before suggested. The dose which had just been administered to him needed to be repeated many times, in order to effect a radical cure of his besetting sin. He was well punished, but unfortunately his antecedents had not been such as to prepare him for the remedial agency. It did him no good.

Mr. Waddie lay upon the pier roaring like a bull. According to the legends of his childhood, some one ought to come and pick him up; some one ought to appear and mollify his rage, by promising summary vengeance upon the “naughty man” who had upset his philosophy, and almost riven his joints asunder. But no one came. His father and mother were not within the hearing of his voice—no one but myself and the irate skipper and his family. The young gentleman lay on the pier and roared. All the traditions of the past were falsified, for no one came to his aid. I did not consider it my duty to meddle, under the circumstances, and the skipper would sooner have shaken him again than undone the good deed he had accomplished.

As no one came to comfort him, Mr. Waddie roared till he was tired of roaring—till the breath came back to his body, and the full measure of ugliness came back to his mind. He got up. He walked down to the side of the canal boat, where the honest captain was sitting composedly on his stool. Mr. Waddie stormed furiously; Mr. Waddie even swore violently. Mr. Waddie inquired, in heated terms, if the honest skipper knew who he was.

The honest skipper did not care who he was. He was an “unlicked cub.” No man or boy should insult his “darter” without as heavy a thrashing as he felt able to give him; and if the young gentleman gave him any more “sarse,” he would just step ashore and dip him a few times in the lake, just by way of cooling his heated blood, and giving him a lesson in good manners.

Mr. Waddie had already tasted the quality of the skipper’s muscle, and he slowly retreated from the pier; but as he went, he vowed vengeance upon the author of his disaster. As he passed the spot where I was stopping a leak in an old skiff belonging to my father, he repeated his threats, and I felt confident at the time that Mr. Waddie intended to annihilate the honest skipper at the first convenient opportunity.

CHAPTER II.

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.

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.

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.

CHAPTER IV.

ON THE LOCOMOTIVE.

After we had sufficiently discussed the explosion and my father’s financial affairs, Christy Holgate took from under the seat where he sat a curiously-shaped black bottle and a tumbler. I would rather have seen him take a living rattlesnake from the box, and place it at my feet—or rather at my father’s feet, for it was on his account that I shuddered when I heard the owner of the bottle declare that it contained “old rye whiskey.” Christy told a tedious story about the contents of this “vial of wrath”—where it was distilled in the State of Kentucky; how a particular friend of his had procured two quarts of it, and no more of that year’s manufacture could be had in the whole nation, either for love or for money.

One would have supposed, from the eloquent description of its virtues, that it was the nectar of the gods, instead of the fiery fluid which men put into their mouths to take their brains away. I was disgusted with the description, and I shuddered the more when I saw that my father was interested in it, and that he cast longing glances at the queer-shaped bottle. I had heard that my father lost his situation at the town on the Hudson by drinking to excess, and I trembled lest the old appetite should be revived in him. If he had been a man like Christy Holgate I should not have trembled, as I viewed the case, for he had drunk liquor all his lifetime to moderation, and no one had ever known him to be intoxicated. It was not so with my father. He had struggled manfully against the insidious appetite, and, with only a couple of exceptions, he had always done so successfully. Twice, and twice only, had he been under the influence of liquor since he came to Centreport. I feared, if he tasted the contents of the strange-looking bottle, that the third time would have to be added to the list.

Christy poured out a glass of the “old rye” and my father drank it. The engineer of the boat took one himself; and both of them talked very fast then till the steamer arrived at her destination. I was alarmed for my father’s safety, and I tried to induce him to go on shore the moment we reached the wharf; but before we could leave Christy produced the bottle again, and both of them took a second dram, though I noticed that the engineer took a very light one himself.

The effect upon my father was soon apparent, though he did not appear to be actually intoxicated. He did not stagger, but he talked in a loud and reckless manner. He gave me a dollar, and told me to spend it for anything I wanted. He said it was a holiday, and he wished me to have a good time. I put the dollar in my pocket, but I did not leave my father. I was mortified by his blustering speech and extravagant manner, but I still clung to him. I hoped my presence would prevent him from taking another dram; and I think it did; for though, on our way to the bank, we passed several bar-rooms, he did not offer to enter one of them. Two or three times he hinted to me that I had better go and enjoy myself alone, which assured me that he desired to drink again, but did not wish to do so before me.

I have since learned that a man will always be more circumspect before his children than when away from them. He feels his responsibility at such times, and is unwilling to degrade himself before those who are his natural dependents. I told my father I had no place to go to, that I did not wish to buy anything, and that I preferred to remain with him. He was vexed at my obstinacy, but he did not say anything. We went to the bank together, and he drew out his money, twenty-four hundred dollars—more than he had ever possessed at one time before. It would discharge the mortgage on the place, and leave him four hundred dollars to make certain improvements which he contemplated.

The whiskey which he had drunk made him feel rich, and it pained me to see him manifest his feelings in a very ridiculous way. He put the money in a great leather pocket-book he carried, and placed it in his breast pocket. By various little devices I induced him to return to the steamer with me. When it was too late I was sorry I had done so, for Christy Holgate again placed the bottle to his lips, taking hardly a teaspoonful of its contents himself. It would be an hour before the train arrived, whose passengers the steamer was to convey up the lake, and I trembled for the safety of my father and of the large sum of money he had in his pocket.

It seems very strange to me, and I dare say it has seemed so to others, that some men, when they have the greatest work of their lifetime in hand, or are pressed down by the heaviest responsibility that ever weighed upon them, choose this very time to get intoxicated. My father had certainly done so. With more than two thirds of his worldly wealth in his pocket, he had taken to drinking whiskey—a thing he had not done before for at least a year. Half of the hour we had to wait had passed away, and my poor father made himself very ridiculous. I had never felt so bad before in my life.

“Wolf, my boy, I forgot to get my tobacco when I was up in town,” said he, handing me a quarter. “Run up to that store next to the hotel, and get me half a pound of his best plug.”

I did not want to leave him, but I could not disobey without making a terrible scene. I went as fast as my legs would carry me, and returned out of breath with running. My father had drunk nothing during my absence, and I was startled when I beheld his changed appearance on my return. He was deadly pale, and was trembling with emotion. He was searching his pockets, and gazing nervously into every hole and corner in the engine-room, where I found him.

“What is the matter, father?” I asked, alarmed at his appearance.

“I have lost my pocket-book, Wolf,” gasped he, in an awful and impressive whisper.

“Lost it!” I exclaimed, almost paralyzed by the intelligence.

“Nonsense, Ralph!” added Christy, with a forced laugh. “You can’t have lost it, if you had it when you came here.”

“I did have it; I know I did. I felt it in my pocket after I came on board.”

“Then it must be in your pocket now. You haven’t been out of the engine-room since you came,” persisted Christy.

I helped my father search his pockets; but the pocket-book was certainly gone.

“You must have dropped it out on your way down from the bank,” said the engineer.

“How could I drop it out?” groaned my father, as he pointed to the deep pocket in which he always kept it.

I searched again in every part of my father’s clothing, but in vain. He was perfectly sober now, so far as I could judge, the grief and mortification attending his heavy loss having neutralized the effects of the liquor. On the seat stood the queer-shaped bottle from which my father had imbibed confusion. By its side was the tumbler, half filled with the whiskey. I concluded that it had been poured out for my father, and that the discovery of his loss had prevented him from drinking it. I put them on the floor and looked into the box; I examined every part of the engine-room again, but without success. The missing treasure could not be found.

My father sat down upon the box again, and actually wept for grief and shame. I heard the whistle of the approaching train. It seemed to startle the victim of the whiskey bottle from his sad revery. He removed his hands from his face, and glanced at Christy, with a look which was full of meaning to me, and seemed to be quite intelligible to the engineer.

“I guess I’ll take a look on the wharf,” said Christy, beginning to edge slowly out of the engine-room.

“Christy Holgate,” cried my father, springing at the throat of the engineer, and clutching him like a madman, “you have got my money!”

“Why, Ralph, what ails you? Do you think I’d take your money?” replied Christy; but his face was as pale as my father’s and his lip quivered.

“I know you have! That’s what you made me drunk for,” continued my father savagely, as he began to claw into the garments of the engineer, in search of his treasure.

Christy started as though he had been stung by a serpent when my father placed his hand upon his breast pocket, and a violent struggle ensued. As my maddened parent tore open his coat, I distinctly saw enough of the well-known pocket-book to enable me to identify it. He had taken it from my father’s pocket and transferred it to his own while handing him the glass of whiskey.

“He has it, father!” I shouted. “I see it in his pocket.”

Christy was a powerful man, and with a desperate effort he shook off my father, hurling him upon the floor with much violence. Having shaken off his fierce assailant, he rushed from the engine-room to the gang-plank forward, by which the passengers were coming on board, and disappeared in the crowd. Without waiting to learn the condition of my father, I followed him. I lost sight of him in the throng, but I commenced an earnest search for him. Presently I discovered him skulking along by the train on the side opposite that at which the passengers were getting out.

The engine had been detached from the train, and had moved forward to the water tank to have her tender filled. The engineer had left the locomotive to speak with a friend on the wharf; and the fireman, after the tender was filled, helped the men throw in the wood. I went ahead of the engine, where I could observe the movements of Christy. I thought he would hide till the train started, and then jump on board. If he did, I meant to be a passenger on the same train.

The tender was filled with wood, and the men walked away, including the fireman. The moment they had gone, Christy sneaked along by the woodsheds, and jumped upon the locomotive. He could not see me, for I was concealed by the smoke-stack. He started the engine. I jumped upon the cow-catcher. In a moment, as he let on the steam, the locomotive was flying like lightning over the rails. I clung to the cow-catcher till the motion was steady, and then climbed up to the side of the machine, exhibiting myself to the astonished villain. At this moment, I happened to think of Waddie’s revolver in my pocket. It was a useful plaything for an emergency like this, and I drew it forth.

CHAPTER V.

CHRISTY HOLGATE.

“Stop her!” I shouted again and again to Christy Holgate, as I pointed the pistol at his head through the window of the cab.

When I first made my appearance, he had thrust his head and shoulders through the window, apparently to examine the situation, and determine in what manner he could best dispose of me. I threatened to shoot him, and he drew in his head, placing himself where I could not see him without changing my position.

I pointed the pistol at Christy and threatened to fire; but I had as little taste for shooting a man as I had for eating him, and I beg the privilege of adding, that I am not a cannibal. I found it very easy to talk about firing, but very much harder to do it. Christy had proved that he was a villain, and a very mean villain too; but I found it quite impossible to carry my threat into execution. I could reason it out that he deserved to be shot, and as he was running away with my father’s money, and did not stop the engine when I told him to do so, that it would be perfectly right for me to shoot him.

If I had been a bloodthirsty, brutal monster, instead of an ordinary boy of sixteen, with human feelings, I suppose I could have fired the pistol while the muzzle covered the head of the rascal in the cab. If I had not been afraid of killing him, I think I should have fired; for I had considerable confidence in my skill as a marksman, though it had not been fortified by much practical experience.

Though Christy had been very useful in enabling me to enlarge my knowledge of the mysteries of the marine engine, and though I was reasonably grateful to him for the privilege he had afforded me, I did not feel under great obligations to him. Whenever I made a trip with him in the engine-room, for the purpose of studying my favorite theme, he invariably set me at work upon some dirty job, either at oiling the machinery or cleaning the bright parts. He was rather stout, and it was always my function to climb up and oil the gudgeons and other working parts of the walking-beam. I had done almost everything pertaining to an engine, under his direction. He used to praise me without stint, and call me a smart boy; which perhaps he intended as my reward, though I found it in the knowledge and experience I had gained.

I did not refrain from pressing the trigger of the revolver while aiming it at Christy’s head on account of the debt of obligation which weighed me down. I knew enough about an engine to make myself useful, and I worked hard for all the information I obtained. Still I considered myself indebted to him for the opportunities he had afforded me; and, if he had not chosen to be a villain, I am quite sure I should always have felt grateful to him, even while I paid in hard work for every scrap of knowledge I obtained from him.

Christy and my father were quite intimate; though, as the steamer in which he served always lay nights and Sundays at the lower end of the lake, they had not been together much of late years. He had recommended my father for the position he then held in the flour mills. I know that my father felt under great obligations to him for the kind words he had spoken in his favor, and had often urged me to help him all I could, encouraging me by the hope that I might, by and by, get a place as engineer on a steamboat.

The engineer of the Ruoara—for this was the name of the steamer in which we had gone down to Ucayga—was a strange man in some respects. He made a great deal of the service he had rendered to my father and to me, and very little of the service we had rendered to him, for my father had often made him little presents, often lent him money, and had once, when the mills were not working, run his steamer for him a week, while he was sick, without any compensation. I never thought Christy had any cause to complain of either of us. But I dislike this balancing of mutual obligations, and only do it in self-defence; for it is the kindness of the heart, and the real willingness to do another a favor, which constitute the obligation, rather than what is actually done. “And if ye do good to them that do good to you, what thank have ye? For sinners also do even the same.”

Christy was a man who always believed that the world was using him hardly. He was unlucky, in his own estimation. The world never gave him his due, and everybody seemed to get the better of him. Though he had good wages, he was not worth any money. He spent his earnings as fast as he got them; not in dissipation, that I am aware of, but he had a thriftless way of doing business. He never could get rid of the suspicion that the world in general was cheating him; and for this reason he had an old grudge against the world. On the passage to Ucayga he discoursed in his favorite strain with my father when he learned his errand. The unhappy man seemed to think that it was unjust to him for one in the same calling to have twenty-four hundred dollars in cash, while he had not a dollar beyond his wages.

The engineer of the steamer had not pluck enough to resent and resist injustice. Perhaps he thought that, in introducing my father to his situation, he had been the making of him, and that he was therefore entitled to the lion’s share of his savings for five years. Whatever he thought, he had deliberately formed his plan to rob my father of his money, and had actually succeeded in his purpose. Christy knew the weak point of his intended victim, and had plied him with whiskey till he was in a situation to be operated upon with impunity. I think my father wanted to drink again, and had sent me for the tobacco so that I should not see him do so.

My father afterwards told me that he recalled the movements of Christy when he took the pocket-book from him, though he thought nothing of them at the time.

“Ralph, you are a good fellow—the best fellow out! Let’s take one more drink,” said Christy, as reported by my father.

“I’m a good fellow, Christy, and you’re another,” replied the victim. “Just one more drink;” and my father, in his maudlin affection for his friend, had thrown his arms around his neck, and hugged him.

During this inebriated embrace Christy had taken the money from his pocket. After he had poured out the liquor, he found that his pocket-book was gone. The discovery paralyzed him; but his head was too much muddled at first to permit him to reason on the circumstances. He remembered that he had felt the pocket-book only a few minutes before; and, as soon as he could think, he was satisfied that his companion had robbed him, for the simple reason that no one else had been near him. He was ashamed of his own conduct. He was conscious that he had drunk too much, and that this had been the occasion of his misfortune.

I do not know what Christy’s plan was, or how he expected to escape the consequences of his crime. He had easily shaken my father off, and made his escape. However hardly the world had used him, he was certainly more severe upon himself than his tyrant had ever been; for when a man commits a crime, he treats himself worse than any other man can treat him. I could not fathom the villain’s plan in running away with the locomotive. I doubt whether he had any purpose except to escape from immediate peril, and thus secure his ill-gotten prize.

The circumstances had devolved upon me the responsibility of capturing the treacherous friend. Half a dozen times I threatened to shoot him if he did not stop the engine, but somehow my muscles did not seem to have the power to execute the threat. Christy had placed himself where I could not see him through the cab window. I examined the revolver, which contained two charges, and then walked up to the window. The villain had crouched down by the fire-box, evidently having a wholesome regard for the weapon in my hand. The engine was going at the rate of thirty miles an hour, and I judged that we had gone about ten miles.

“Christy Holgate, I don’t want to shoot you, but I’ll do it, as sure as you live, if you don’t stop her!” I shouted, as loud as I could yell, while I aimed the revolver at him again.

“Don’t fire, Wolf, and I’ll stop her as soon as I can,” he replied; and I think his guilty conscience terrified him quite as much as the pistol.

He stood up, and I saw the pocket-book sticking out of his outside breast pocket. I concluded that he had taken it out to examine its contents, and I felt pretty confident that I should have the satisfaction of restoring the lost treasure to my father. With the revolver, containing two bullets, I realized that I was master of the situation.

Christy shut off the steam, and put on the brake just as we entered a dense wood. As the speed of the engine slackened, I climbed upon the roof of the cab, and jumped down upon the wood in the tender. I took care not to go very near the villain, for, even with the pistol in my hand, I thought he was fully a match for me.

“Do you mean to shoot me, after all I’ve done for you, Wolf?” said he, in a whining tone, as the engine stopped.

“I didn’t think you would serve my father such a mean trick as you did,” I replied. “I will shoot you if you don’t give up that pocket-book.”

“I didn’t mean to take your father’s money, Wolf. He and I have been good friends for a great many years, and I wouldn’t hurt him any more than I would myself.”

“But you did take it.”

“I didn’t mean to keep it. I was only joking. I meant to give it back to him; but when he flew at me so, he made me mad.”

“What did you run away on the engine for, then?” I demanded, willing, if possible, to accept his explanation.

“You got me into the scrape, and I hardly knew what I was about. I’m ruined now, and it won’t do for me to go back.”

“You can go where you please; but give me that pocket-book, Christy, or we’ll finish the business here,” I continued, raising the pistol again.

“Of course I’ll give it to you,” he answered, handing me the pocket-book. “But I’m afraid to go back myself.”

I put the treasure into my pocket, and felt that I had won the day. Christy jumped from the engine, and disappeared in the woods.

CHAPTER VI.

ON THE LOCOMOTIVE.

I was entirely satisfied with myself as I put the pocket-book into my breast pocket, and carefully buttoned my coat. I felt as though I had really done “a big thing,” allowing the phrase to mean even more than boys usually attach to it. How my father would rejoice to see that money again! How thankful he would be for the success which had attended my efforts!

The pocket-book was in my possession, and I was too much excited to look into it. I was somewhat afraid, if I did not keep both eyes open, that Christy would come out of the woods and undo the work I had accomplished. I could hear him forcing his way through the underbrush as he retreated; but I still kept the revolver where I could make use of it if occasion required. It seemed to me then that my quarrel with Mr. Waddie had been a fortunate circumstance, since the possession of the pistol had enabled me to recover the pocket-book. I was rather thankful to the scion for his agency in the matter, and willing, when the time of settlement came, to make some concessions, if needful, to his vanity and pride.

Christy had piled the wood into the fire-box for a hard run, and the locomotive was hissing and quivering with the pressure of steam upon it. By the unwritten law of succession, the care of the machine devolved upon me, and I am willing to confess that I was not displeased with the task imposed upon me. To run the engine alone, with no one to volunteer any instructions or limitations to me, was a delightful duty; and I was so absorbed by the prospect that I gave no further thought to the pocket-book. It was safe, and that was enough.

I must run the locomotive back to Ucayga; but I was fully equal to the task. I knew every part of the machine, and had entire confidence in my own ability. I did not exactly like to run her backwards; but, as there was no turn-table at hand, I had no choice. Reversing the valves, I let on the steam very gradually, and the engine moved off according to my calculations. I gave her more steam, and she began to rush over the rails at a velocity which startled me, when I considered that the motions of the machine were under my control.

I had to keep a lookout over the top of the tender, and at the same time watch the furnace, the gauge-cocks, and the indicator; and of course I had to observe them much more closely than would have been necessary for a person of more experience. Having my hands and my head full, something less than thirty miles an hour was sufficient to gratify my ambition. I knew nothing about the roads which crossed the track, and therefore I kept up a constant whistling and ringing of the bell. It was exciting, I can testify, to any one who never tried to run a locomotive under similar circumstances. I was doing duty as engineer and fireman, and I could not think of anything but the business in hand.

It would have been exceedingly awkward and unpleasant to burst the boiler, or run over a vehicle crossing the track, and I did not wish to have my first venture on a locomotive damaged by such an accident. I kept a sharp lookout, both before and behind me. It was a new position to me, and I enjoyed the novelty of it, in spite of the fear of being blown up, or smashed by a collision. I kept the whistle sounding, and as the engine whirled around a bend, after I had been running fifteen or twenty minutes, I saw some men lifting a hand-car from the track in great haste. They had heard my warning in season to prevent the catastrophe I dreaded.

“Stop her!” shouted one of the party, with all his might, as the engine thundered by him.

A glance at the party assured me that one of them was the engineer of the train. I shut off the steam, and put on the brake. As it was a down grade, the engine went about a mile before I could stop her. But, as soon as I had brought her to a halt, I reversed the valves again, and went ahead till I came up with the party, who were just putting the hand-car upon the track again. The engineer and fireman leaped upon the foot-board. The former was much excited, and I was not a little surprised to find that he did not even thank me for bringing back his engine.

“What does all this mean?” he demanded, with an oath. “What did you run away with the engine for?”

“I did not run away with her; I only brought her back,” I replied, indignantly.

“Who was the man that stole the money?”

“That was Christy Holgate; he was the man that ran away with the engine.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Wolf Penniman. The money was stolen from my father. When I saw Christy leap into the cab, I jumped upon the cow-catcher.”

“Then you are the boy they were looking for down to the station.”

“I don’t know about that. I had a pistol, and I made Christy stop her, and give me the pocket-book. He got off then, and ran into the woods. I ran the engine back again.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t shoot the rascal,” added the engineer, as he examined into the condition of the locomotive.

“I got the pocket-book again, and that was all I wanted. I didn’t wish to kill him.”

“Who told you how to run an engine?” asked the engineer, as he started the locomotive.

“My father is an engineer, and I’ve always been among engines, though I never ran a locomotive alone before.”

“I suppose you think you can run one now?”

“Yes, sir; I can put her through by daylight,” I replied, using a pet phrase of mine.

“You have done very well, sonny,” said he, with a smile; and he could afford to smile, though he growled a great deal at being an hour behind time by the event of losing his engine.

He asked me a great many questions about Christy and the robbery; and the conversation was only interrupted by our arrival at the Ucayga station, where the impatient passengers were waiting to continue their journey. I jumped off; the engine was shackled to the train again, and went on its way.

“Halloo, Wolf!” called the captain of the steamer to me. “Where is Christy?”

“I don’t know, sir. He jumped off the locomotive, and ran away into the woods.”

A crowd of people gathered around me to hear my story, for the facts of the robbery had been related by my father. I felt the pocket-book in my coat, and declined to answer any questions till I had seen my father. I was told he was on board of the steamer, and I hastened to find him. He was in the engine-room, where I had left him. He was still deadly pale, and seemed to have grown ten years older in a single hour.

“Where have you been, Wolf?” asked he, in a voice almost choking with emotion.

“I have been after Christy.”

“Did you catch him?” he asked, in a sepulchral tone.

“I was on the engine with him. Here is your pocket-book, father.”

He grasped it with convulsive energy, and seemed to grow young again in a moment. The crowd, most of whom were passengers in the steamer, gathered in the gangway, by the side of the engine-room, to learn the facts. In an excited manner I began to tell my story.

“What does he say? Speak louder, boy!” called the men behind me.

Though I did not feel like haranguing a multitude, I raised my voice.

“Good! Good!” shouted the crowd, when I came to the point where I aimed the revolver at Christy in the cab. “Why didn’t you shoot him?”

“When I drew a bead upon him he stopped the engine, and gave up the pocket-book,” I continued, with boyish exhilaration.

“Wolf, you have saved me,” gasped my delighted father; “but I am rather sorry you did not shoot the villain.”

“We are wasting the whole day here,” said the captain of the boat, nervously. “We have no engineer now. Ralph, will you run us up the lake?”

“Certainly I will,” replied my father, taking his place at the machinery.

I sat down in the engine-room with him and answered the questions he put to me about the affair. He obeyed the signals given him by the bells, and as soon as the boat was going ahead at full speed, he took a seat at my side.

“Wolf, I have suffered more to-day than in all the rest of my lifetime,” said he, wiping the perspiration from his brow. “If I had lost that money, it would well nigh have killed me. It was a lucky thing that you took that pistol from Waddie.”

“It happened just right; Christy was afraid of it, and when I got the muzzle to bear upon him, he came down, like Crockett’s coon,” I answered, with no little self-complaisance.

“Was he willing to give it up?”

“He couldn’t help himself. If he hadn’t given it up, I should have put a bullet through him.”

“I’m glad you didn’t have to do that; on the whole, though, I shouldn’t have cared much if you had shot him,” added my father, putting his hand upon the pocket-book to assure himself of its present safety. “I wouldn’t have believed Christy could be guilty of such a mean trick. But it was my fault, Wolf. You saw how it was done, and it has been a lesson to me which I shall never forget.”

My father sighed heavily as he thought of the circumstances, and I fancy he promised himself then never again to touch whiskey.

“Did Christy open the pocket-book?” he asked, after a silence of some minutes.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him open it, and I don’t know when he could have had time to do so,” I replied.

“It don’t look as though it had been touched,” said he, taking the pocket-book from his pocket, and proceeding to open it.

“I guess it is all right, father,” I added.

“All right!” gasped he. “There is not a single dollar in it!”

My father groaned in bitterness of spirit. I looked into the open pocket-book. The money had all been taken from it!

CHAPTER VII.

THE VIAL OF WRATH.

I was both amazed and confounded when it was ascertained that the pocket-book did not contain the money. From the depth of despair my father and myself had gone up to the pinnacle of hope, when the treasure was supposed to be found; and now we fell back into a deeper gulf than that into which we had first fallen. Those with whom money is plenty cannot understand the greatness of my father’s loss. For years he had toiled and saved in order to clear the house in which we lived. He had struggled with, and conquered, the appetite for intoxicating drinks, in order to accomplish his great purpose.

He had been successful. He had kept away from the drunkard’s bowl, he had lived prudently, he had carefully husbanded all his resources, and, at the time my story begins, he felt that the pretty little place where we lived actually belonged to him. It was always to be the home of his family, and it was all the more loved and prized because it had been won by constant toil and careful saving. This was the feeling of my father, as it was my own, when we started for Ucayga to draw the money from the bank. We felt like the king and the prince who had won a great victory, and were to march in triumph into the conquered possession.

My father was elated by what he had accomplished. The mortgage note for two thousand dollars would be due the next week, and he had the money to pay it, with enough to make the coveted improvements. It would have been better if he had not been elated; for this feeling led him to believe that, as the battle had been won, there was no longer any need of the vigilance with which he had guarded himself. He had raised the cup to his lips, and in a moment, as it were, his brilliant fortune deserted him; the savings of years were wrenched from his relaxed grasp.

I do not wonder, as I consider how prudent and careful he had been, that he sank into the depths of despair when he found the money was really gone. The struggle had been long and severe, the victory sublime and precious; and now the defeat, in the moment of conquest, was terrible in the extreme. I trembled for my father while I gazed into his pale face, and observed the sweep of his torturing emotions, as they were displayed in his expression.

For my own part, I was intensely mortified at the result of my efforts. I felt cheap and mean, as I sank down from the height to which I had lifted myself, and realized that all my grand deeds had been but a farce. If I had only looked into the pocket-book when Christy returned it to me, I might have saved this terrible fall. The villain had probably taken the money from it while he was crouching down by the fire-box. He had played a trick upon me, and I had been an easy victim. I was but a boy, while I had felt myself to be a man, and had behaved like a boy. If I had been smart in one respect, I had been stupid in another. I blamed myself severely for permitting myself to be duped by Christy at the moment when he was in my power. I almost wished that I had shot him; but I am sure now that I should have felt ten times worse if I had killed him, even if I had obtained the money by doing so.

“I am ruined, Wolf,” groaned my father, as he dropped upon the seat in the engine-room. “I shall never get the money now.”

“I think you will, father,” I replied, trying to be hopeful rather than confident.

“No; I shall never see a dollar of it again.”

“Don’t give it up yet, father. Christy has gone off in his every-day clothes, and left his family at Ucayga. He will come back again, or you will get some clew to him.”

“I’m afraid not,” said my father, shaking his head.

“But something must be done. Christy isn’t a great way off, and we must put him through by daylight,” I added.

“What can we do? It isn’t much use to do any thing.”

“Yes, it is. Something can be done, I know.”

“Where are we now, Wolf?” asked my father.

I did not know where we were, for there was no chance to see the shore from the engine-room. I walked out on the forward deck, and returned immediately.

“Well, where are we, Wolf?” demanded my father, rather sharply, as he laid down the glass from which he had just drained another dram taken from Christy’s queer-shaped bottle.

“We are just off the North Shoe,” I replied, as gloomily as though another third of my father’s worldly wealth had also taken to itself wings.

My poor father was drinking whiskey again. In his depression and despair, the bottle seemed to be his only resource. I have since learned enough of human nature to understand how it was with him. Men in the sunlight of prosperity play with the fiend of the cup. Full of life, full of animal spirits, it is comparatively easy to control the appetite. But when the hour of despondency comes; when depression invades the mind; when earthly possessions elude the grasp—then they flee to the consolations of the cup. It gives an artificial strength, and men who in prosperity might always have kept sober and temperate, in adversity are lost in the whirlpool of tippling and inebriation.

Thus it seemed to be with my father. He had begun to drink that day in the elation of his spirits; he was now resorting to the cup as an antidote for depression and despair. The dram had its temporary effect; but, while he was cheered by the fiery draught, I trembled for him. I feared that this was only the beginning of the end—that he needed prosperity to save him from himself.