“I wish it would, Steve; I wish it would; for no one would light it again. It was a downright shame to make a fire on this little gem of an island; but some picnickers have more romance than poetry. Well, I am going, anyway; good-bye.”
A good look at Steve’s face showed Mr. Lawrence that the graceless trickster desired to be left alone. “I think this will be a lesson to the poor boy,” he said in himself “for he is evidently suffering torments.”
Steve’s relief was great when he found himself alone. “Let me think how it was,” he muttered. “Will didn’t know where the box was. He found a box like his own, but was it the same? He didn’t open it, and I couldn’t; so perhaps there were no fire-crackers in it, after all!”
A gleam of hope shot through his wrung heart; but that gleam was soon effectually put out by this appalling thought:
“He found the box among his father’s guns—what if there is powder in it!”
He started up in horror. “But no,” he reflected, “if it had been powder, it would have exploded as soon as the box got hot, or on fire. Now, was Will playing a trick on me? No, for he didn’t know anything about it till I asked him for the fire-crackers; and I followed him around while he looked for the box. Oh, it must be some blunder of his.”
Steve could not shake off his doubts and fears, and his excited imagination conjured up all sorts of horrors.
He had just resolved to find the hateful box, or scatter the fire to the several winds, when a melancholy-looking individual, whose approach he had not perceived, landed on the island, made his way hurriedly to the fire, and sat down close beside it.
Stephen drew back in desperation, while the new-comer snatched up a stick and savagely stirred up the rather dull fire.
“Sir,” Stephen began hesitatingly, “don’t sit so close to the fire; you might get burnt.”