Shortly before breakfast the rain stopped, and the sun came feebly out. We were soon in the street once more, creating a racket that left nothing to be desired. Joe and Charley Carter joined us, and so did Rob Currier and Peter Bailey. Peter had a revolver, and he scorned fire-crackers. The Rev. Mr. Dimmick, who lived across the street, stood on the steps of his dwelling and beamed upon us. He looked as if he would like to celebrate, too.
Mr. Dimmick was a minister, which was too bad, because he was such a good ball-player. Charley Carter had an enormous cannon cracker, and when he started to touch it off, Mr. Dimmick called out:—
"Wait a minute,—you ought to have something to put over that,—a box, or a can, or something."
"I wish I had!" said Charley; "let me take that cigar-box, Jimmy?"
"I've got just the thing," shouted the minister; "I'll get it."
And he vanished into the house. Presently he came out again with a shining tin box. They lighted the cannon cracker, clapped the box over it, and ran.
Bang! went the cracker, and the box shot straight up in the air.
"Jiminy!" said Joe Carter, "'twon't never come down!"
It looked as if it wouldn't. It went up above the houses, above the trees, even. Then it started to fall, and as it did so a funny thing happened. For the seams of the box had all been blown apart, and only its swift upward rush had kept them together. As soon as it started on its downward trip, they flew apart, and the box struck the earth, a flat sheet of tin,—flat as a fritter.