But alas! it didn't. It only ploughed a little furrow in the green grass, like its unhappy predecessor.
The masses laughed at this, and one man—a white-haired old villager—said, kindly but firmly, "Reuben, I'm 'fraid you don't understand pyrotechny."
Reuben was amazed. Why did his rockets go down instead of up? But, perhaps, the others would be more successful, and, with a flushed face, and in a voice scarcely as firm as before, he said:
"The next specimen of pyrotechny will go up in the air, bust, and become an eagle. Said eagle will soar away into the western skies, leavin' a red trail behind him as he so soars."
But, alas! again. No eagle soared, but, on the contrary, that ordinary proud bird buried its head in the grass.
The people were dissatisfied. They made sarcastic remarks. Some of them howled angrily. The aged man who had before spoken said, "No, Reuben, you evidently don't understand pyrotechny."
Pettingill boiled with rage and disappointment.
"You don't understand pyrotechny!" the masses shouted.
Then they laughed in a disagreeable manner, and some unfeeling lads threw dirt at our hero.
"You don't understand pyrotechny!" the masses yelled again.