“The glorious Fourth and the Stars and Stripes! Hurrah, hurrah!”
“Hurrah!” came the thundering rejoinder from all.
During the exciting moments that followed, the giant crackers became scattered on the ground. Inadvertently the chaperon, Miss Emeline Hobbs, sat down among them. A match was struck and went to Fen Green’s pipe, then to the ground. In a wink it touched the protruding end of the fuse of a giant cracker on which sat Miss Emeline Hobbs. Before anyone could give warning—boom! went the report of the great explosion, and up into the air went Emeline Hobbs, then down again on to the ground with a thump. But, thanks to her lucky star, she was unharmed, save a faint through fright.
Cold water and persistent rubbing soon brought her again to normal conditions. With her head still pillowed on Paul Waffington’s coat, that he had shed in a twinkle and made into a pillow for the occasion she refused to get up until she had propounded the following question:
“Oh, where am I? Am I in the valley or still on the rock?”
“You’d better be a leetle more careful what you’re asettin’ down on nixt time, Emeline,” said Boaz. “Ef you’d abin jist a leetle closer to the edge of the rock whin thet thing busted, you’d a hit a farm ’bout a mile below here, I reckon.”
That was too much for her—and from Boaz Honeycutt. It fired her up. She jumped up and shook her fist at the boy. But when Waffington put out his hand in surprise she resumed her normal state and stood in her place with the rest and watched the giant crackers go down over the rock and explode.
Dinner time! By a rustic seat and under a bower of rhododendrons the dexterous hands of Gena Filson led the other ladies of the party in spreading the dinner. It was indeed a feast, a feast on the mountaintop. There were pickles and slaw; chicken salad and cold ham; stuffed eggs and many, many sweets. Fen Green and Boaz Honeycutt tried a little of all and pronounced it all good. When dinner was over, the baskets went back to their places under the seats in the wagon. The mules had just been given their corn and hay when the wheels of an approaching carriage was heard. The carriage rolled up and stopped a few yards distant from the party.
“Ah, how do you do, ah, Miss Filson. Ah, may I speak with you a moment, ah?” It was no other than “Mr. L. Texas” himself, and Paul Waffington ground his teeth.
“Why, how do you do, Mr. Texas,” said Gena Filson, going over to the carriage and offering her hand.