“I think you are mightily like old Pythagoras, Miss Adelaide.”
“Why so, Mr. Bombs?”
“He was said to be an ‘assiduous questioner’, Miss Adelaide.”
That ended it. He lighted his cigar and went out into the garden.
Soon afterwards the Tourbillions began to ascend; and the heavens, at least that portion of them that belonged to Schwarmer Hill, was soon filled with jets and coils of flame and stars of many magnitudes and colors. The spectators appeared to be highly delighted—all except Adelaide. She was growing tired. Her eyes burned, her head ached and she was thinking of going to her room, when suddenly the sky cleared and she heard the voice of Bombs announcing the closing piece—“his new contribution to Pyrotechnic art.”
He said among other things that he had invented the piece especially for this occasion; that it had as yet no name; that he had left it for the ladies to name—that is, if it proved to be a success, or materialized as he expected it would. Otherwise it might better be nameless; for if it were mentioned at all it would be called “The light that failed.” However he would say this much as to its composition and intention. It was intended to be a sort of cross between the girandole and the war-rocket. The girandole proper was getting to be rather monotonous, having been used as the end piece to pyro-spectacles for fifty years or more. He thought it was high time to have a new one. It was also necessary that the new one should be superior to the old one, both in size and splendor of coloring. There was no such thing as going backward in this matter. We might as well talk of the decadence of American institutions or the annihilation of “The Fourth of July.”
“As to its composition,” continued Bombs, “I think you will believe after you have seen it, that it was no slight thing to get up a piece of this kind—so many points had to be considered. As an example there was the one thing of garniture. The ladies will appreciate this very readily. If I mistake not, a lady would think a week spent in selecting the proper trimmings for her dress was a long time. What then would she say if I told her that I spent two months selecting the most effective garniture for my piece—two months to get it entirely out of the region of commonness—the region of gold and silver rain and of the ‘Peacock’s Tail!’” The ladies waved their fans and clapped their hands, during which commotion Mr. Bombs disappeared from view.
While Adelaide was wondering where he had gone to so suddenly, a huge stream of serpentine fire issued from the Engine House. It grew larger and larger every moment. It lifted itself into monstrous coils. It hissed and sent forth tongues of flame. It vomited forth all sorts of hideous shapes, in all sorts of lurid colors, ever increasing in size and horror until no more could be conceived—then there was a loud report and a great globe of fire plunged downward and disappeared behind the brow of the hill!
The gentlemen applauded. Bombs had said in the beginning that the piece was a cross between a war rocket and a girandole and they supposed that the report and the ball of fire was the war part of it, but Adelaide knew that it was an accident and she thought of the gardener’s cottage with a thrill of fear.
A moment afterwards a sheet of light and flame came streaming up from that direction, a woman’s voice cried “Fire! Fire!” and a woman’s form clad in white appeared on the fiery background. The spectators were startled for the moment; then they broke out in wild applause.