“More boys!” groaned the steaming Mr. Sarjent. “More boys coming to torment me.”
The plotters soon landed, and crowded around Stephen.
“What a fire, Steve,” said Charley. “It smells as if you’d been burning a witch.”
“Come on, Steve,” said Will; “we’ve got a good boat, and we’re off for a cruise before they set the tables.”
Steve’s face brightened, then clouded, and he said, hopelessly, “I can’t go.”
“Can’t go?” echoed Charley. “Why, Stunner, what’s the matter with you? You look like a phantom, and here you sit, like an Indian idol; taking no exercise, having no fun, and doing nothing! Come now, you’ve got to go with us.”
“Charley,” Steve whispered, “don’t joke with me, nor make fun of me, for I can’t stand it. Charley, if you should have some old fire-crackers done up in a box, and you should put ’em into a fire, what do you suppose they would do?”
“Do?” said Charley. “Why, if they were old, as you say, they might be mildewed, for all you or I know, and burn up with the box, like so much solid wood—or else squib and hiss a little, and then go out.”
This novel and striking idea was too much for Steve’s fevered brain. Mildewed fire-crackers! His head swam; but with an effort he recovered himself, and flashed Charles such a look of gratitude that the plot came within an inch of crumbling into a woeful ruin.