“Better put it off until you are of age, Miss Adelaide.”
“No, I will not, Mr. Bombs. You needn’t smile that smile—I’m going to begin tomorrow at the very hour.”
They walked slowly up the hill while the rest of the party dashed by them in the Schwarmer turnouts; but they did not speak to each other again until the party had gathered on the broad veranda to witness the evening’s entertainment.
CHAPTER XIII.
ALFONSO BOMBS’ PYROTECHNICS AND ADELAIDE SCHWARMER’S BLAME.
Mr. Bombs had brought with him some of the most elaborate and artistic works known to the trade. He had in mind works of a much grander and more instructive nature—works that would be truly great and high and far reaching (so he said); works that would be fit for the greatest king on earth to look at; that would startle and vivify the entire world and make the family name illustrious. He had been collecting material for his works throughout his college course—historical events, especially the burning and storming of cities and such of the battles and conflicts as lent themselves readily to pyrotechnic delineation. He was busy experimenting with his material. He expected to have his first historical piece finished by this time next year, and he was happy to think he had secured so good a place for its representation.
He thought the people of the town would like it—this new and higher development of pyrotechnic art; but that it did not matter much whether they liked it or not. There would be a big crowd from the city of invited guests and others, for Schwarmer would be in it heart and soul as well as purse. He had given him efficient aid in getting his pieces ready for the evening.
“I wonder if those idiots down below will disdain to watch our performance,” asked Bombs, as he was about to begin.