"Now for it!" exclaimed Charles, as he lighted the slowmatch. "Here goes the first shot. Hurrah!"
The boys were in high glee. The crackers snapped admirably, and the little forest of Centre Isle reverberated with the reports of their mimic guns. Various expedients were devised to vary the entertainment. Crackers were fired in the water, in the stumps, thrown in the air, or half buried in the wet sand of the beach.
"By gracious! the Bunkers are coming!" exclaimed Tony Weston, as he discerned the raft, navigated by half a dozen boys, approaching the island.
"Let them come," said Charles.
"I had rather they would not come," added Frank.
"What harm will they do?"
"They are quarrelsome and disagreeable."
"Well, they won't be here this half-hour yet; that is one consolation; and we can have a good time till they do get here," returned Charles, as he lighted a whole bunch of the crackers.
"Go it!" cried Tony. "Hurrah! Fourth of July comes but once a year."
"Don't fire them all at once, Charley," interposed Frank.