“Oh!” shouted several in chorus.
Some ran up-stairs, others into the rainy street, the nervous young lady fainted, a business-like young matron, who had for years been maturing plans of operation in case of fire, hastily swept into a table-cover a dozen books in special morocco bindings, and hurried through the rain with them to a house several hundred feet away, while the faithful dog Terry, scenting the trouble afar off, hurried home and did his duty to the best of his ability by barking and snapping furiously at every one, and galloping frantically through the house, leaving his mark upon almost every square yard of carpet. Meanwhile Mr. Burton hurried up-stairs coatless, with disarranged hair, dirty hands, smirched face, and assured the ladies that there was no danger, while Budge and Toddie, the former deadly pale, and the latter almost apoplectic in color, sneaked up to their own chamber.
The company dispersed; ladies who had expected carriages did not wait for them, but struggled to the extreme verge of politeness for the use of such umbrellas and waterproof cloaks as Mrs. Burton could supply. Fifteen minutes later the only occupant of the parlor was the dog Terry, who lay, with alert head, in the centre of a large Turkish chair. Mrs. Burton, tenderly supported by her husband, descended the stair, and contemplated with tightly compressed lips and blazing eyes the disorder of her desolated parlor. When, however, she reached the dining-room and beheld the exquisitely set table, to the arrangement of which she had devoted hours of thought in preceding days and weeks, she burst into a flood of tears.
“I’ll tell you how it was,” said Budge, who appeared suddenly and without invitation, and whose consciousness of good intention made him as adamant before the indignant frowns of his uncle and aunt, “I always think bonfires is the nicest things about celebrations, an’ Tod an’ me have been carryin’ sticks for two days to make a big bonfire in the back yard to-day. But it rained, an’ rainy sticks won’t burn. So we thought we’d make one in the cellar, ’cause the top is all tin, an’ the bottom’s all dirt, an’ it can’t rain in there at all. An’ we got lots of newspapers and kindlin’-wood, an’ put some kerosene on it, an’ it blazed up beautiful, an’ we was just comin’ up to ask you all down to look at it, when in came Uncle Harry, an’ banged me against the wall an’ Tod into the coal heap, an’ threw a mean old dirty carpet on top of it, an’ wetted it all over.”
“Little boysh never can do anyfing nysh wivout bein’ made to don’t,” said Toddie. “Dzust see what an awful big splinter I got in my hand when I was froin’ wood on de fire! I didn’t cry a bit about it den, ’cause I fought I was makin’ uvver folks happy, like de Lord wants little boysh to. But dey didn’t get happy, so now I’m goin’ to cry ’bout de splinter!”
And Toddie raised a howl which was as much superior to his usual cry as things made to order generally are to the ordinary supply.
“We had a torchlight procession too,” said Budge. “We had to have it in the attic, but it wasn’t very nice. There wasn’t any trees up there for the light to dance around on, like it does on ’lection-day nights. So we just stopped, an’ would have felt real doleful if we hadn’t thought of the bonfire.”
“Where did you leave the torches?” asked Mr. Burton, springing from his chair, and lifting his wife to her feet at the same time.
“THREW A MEAN OLD DIRTY CARPET ON TOP OF IT”