"All blew up—everything!" was the way Ward expressed it.
"Are you hurt?" demanded Polly anxiously.
"What happened?" Margy cried.
"Where are the fireworks?" This from Artie, though what was left of the fireworks was only too apparent.
Ward got slowly to his feet. He was not seriously hurt, though one or two of his fingers were painfully scorched. He blew upon them to cool them.
"Now we haven't got a blamed thing for the Fourth of July," he remarked sadly. "After I spent two days persuading Fred to let us spend some of the money, too!"
Even Fred had to laugh at this. Ward had been most insistent that some of the dues of the club be expended for fireworks and he had, with some assistance from the others, induced Fred, as treasurer, to let them take a small sum from the bank and expend it for the coming Fourth of July celebration.
"Never mind, as long as you are not hurt," said Polly consolingly. "It is a wonder you didn't blow up with the fireworks."
"I suppose you put a box of matches in with 'em," Fred suggested. "Or were you fooling with the punk?"