Through by daylight

Title: Through by daylight

Or, the young engineer of the Lake Shore Railroad

Author: Oliver Optic

Engraver: Samuel Smith Kilburn

Illustrator: W. L. Champney

Release date: March 10, 2024 [eBook #73134]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Lee and Shepard, 1897

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73134

Credits: Terry Jeffress and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)

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

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:

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.

Lee and Shepard Publishers Boston

[1]

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

[2]

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.

[5]

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[6] 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.

[7]

CONTENTS.

[11]

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[12] 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[13] 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[14] 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[15] 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[16] 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[17] 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[18] 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[19] 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.

[20]

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.

[21]

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.

[22]

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[23] 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[24] 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.

[25]

“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[26] 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.

[27]