“Well, could you blame ’em?” said the boy named Billy.
Fourth of July
“HELLO, Scout,” said Uncle Ned, who had dropped in for dinner, as the boy named Billy came in in his new khaki uniform, “whither away?”
“I’m just getting my kit packed,” said the boy named Billy, “we Juniors are going to hike out to Long Lake for over the Fourth.”
“You’ll miss all the fireworks,” said Uncle Ned.
“No, we won’t, we’ll be back before evening,” said Billy. “We’ve got to because we’re going to have Company fireworks on the Parade Grounds—every fellow’s going to bring his own and pool ’em—Dad’s given me some regular sky-shooters to celebrate my country’s birthday with.”
“Not much like the unsafe and insane Fourth your Dad and I used to have when we were youngsters,” grinned Uncle Ned. “We had real gunpowder those days.”
“Dad’s told me all about it,” said Billy. “It must have been loads of fun. I like a big noise as well as anybody, but I sort of like to be all in one piece when I take the count at bedtime, and Dad has always missed that finger of his a lot—that middle one he lost the Fourth just after he was nine years old.”