“You see how easy it is,” Pickering said. “Anyone with a little sense can do it. Now! Now, Cissy! get out of the way!”
They waited and waited. But, alas! nothing happened. He tried again and yet again, but it turned out a failure, the sort of tragedy that is more disappointing than any danger or even any accident. … It fell completely flat.
*
There must have been something the matter with the infernal fireworks. It couldn’t have been Pickering not knowing how to do them.
That was impossible, simply because Pickering always knew how to do everything.
The wretched man who sold them to him must have cheated.
It was a terrible fiasco. Not a single one of the rotten things went off. The most awful thing happened that could happen in life. After great fear, hope, suspense, excitement and joy, the squibs were damp!
Nothing went off. Nothing happened. As to the Bengal fire, nothing was ever seen of it but some damp paper and a very horrible scent.
Certainly there was no vulgarity about it, no ostentation, except the perfume. The fireworks were as private as they could possibly be!
“At any rate,” said Cissy, trying to console her guest, “perhaps it’s better than if the house had caught fire and we had all been burnt up!”