"Don't I?" screamed Pettingill, wild with rage; "don't you think I do?"
Then seizing several gigantic rockets he placed them over a box of powder, and touched the whole off.
This rocket went up. It did, indeed.
There was a terrific explosion.
No one was killed, fortunately; though many were injured.
The platform was almost torn to pieces.
But proudly erect among the falling timbers stood Pettingill, his face flashing with wild triumph; and he shouted: "If I'm any judge of pyrotechny, That rocket has went off."
Then seeing that all the fingers on his right hand had been taken close off in the explosion, he added: "And I ain't so dreadful certain but four of my fingers has went off with it, because I don't see 'em here now!"
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