The pocket-money of those having friends with long purses was saved up for weeks beforehand for this purpose; while any boys without a regular allowance had to “beg or borrow,” so that they might contribute to the general fund.
The couple of odd shillings Uncle George had slipped into my hand on leaving London, had, of course, melted away long ago, and, until this year, he never seemed to think of renewing the tip, supposing, perhaps, that I did not want anything, for I was too proud to ask him; but at Michaelmas, when my birthday came round—I was just fourteen then—he quite unexpectedly sent me a post-office order for half-a-sovereign in the possession of which I felt as rich as Croesus.
Tom, naturally, was told of the arrival of this enormous treasure instantly. Indeed, he accompanied me on the next half-holiday, when we were allowed out, to get the order cashed; but beyond expending about eighteenpence in hot three-corner jam tarts and ginger beer, at a favourite confectioner’s patronised by the school, we devoted the sum to purchasing the best fireworks we could get for the money, carrying our explosives back to the school carefully concealed on our persons, and secreting them in our lockers.
“We’ll have such a lark!” said Tom.
“Won’t it be jolly!” I chimed in, with equal enthusiasm—adding, however, a moment afterwards, as the reflection occurred to me, “What a pity, though, Tom, that the Fifth falls this year on a Sunday? I declare, I never thought of it before!”
“Nor I,” said he, and both our faces fell six inches at least.
But, Tom’s soon brightened up again, as some happy thought flashed across his mind.
“Why, it’ll be all the better, Martin,” he cried out, greatly to my surprise.
“How can that be?” I exclaimed, indignantly. “The Doctor will never allow us to have our bonfire, I’m sure!”
“Hush, you stupid,” said Tom. “I do declare your brains must be wool-gathering! Stop a minute and listen to me.”