"I don't know about this, fellows"—he began.
"Oh! don't spoil the fun, Stirling," pleaded little Ned Sawyer, a rare favorite with Bart. "We asked one-legged Dacy on the quiet. He was in the war, and he says the gun can't burst, or anything."
The crowd kept pushing Bart forward in eager excitement.
"Why don't you light it yourself?" inquired Bart of Dale.
"I've sprained my foot—limping now," explained young Wacker. "She may kick, you see, and soon as you light her you want to scoot."
"Go ahead, Bart! touch her off," implored little Sawyer, quivering with excitement.
"Whoop! hurrah!" yelled a frantic chorus as Bart took a voluntary step up the hill.
That decided him—patriotism was in the air and he was fully infected. One or two of the larger boys advanced with him, but halted at a safe distance, while the younger ones danced about and stuck their fingers in their ears, screaming.
Bart got to the side of the cannon. It was silhouetted in the landscape on a slight slant towards the stately mansion and grounds of Colonel Harrington, in full view at all times of the magnate who had improved its surroundings.
Bart made out a long fuse trailing three feet or more over the side of the old fieldpiece. He blew the punk to a bright glow.