And Miss Lucinda, to her own amazement, found herself replying: “Well, no; but don’t get up too early.”
And after Jim was asleep, and it was time for her to retire, she went softly into his room to lay two packages of firecrackers on the chair beside the gay garments.
Poor Miss Lucinda hid her head under the bed-clothes during the night, and when there came an extra loud explosion thought of Jim. But at breakfast-time he turned up safe and smiling.
“I never had sech a good time in all my life before. Say, Miss Tibbox, did you mean all those firecrackers for me? Well, if you ain’t the nicest woman in the world! I’ve got a s’prise for you, too. Just you wait and see!” and he nodded mysteriously across the table at Miss Lucinda, who felt a vague misgiving.
“Why didn’t you wear your soldier suit?” she asked.
Jim beamed upon her. “Why, I’m a-savin’ it. We don’t march till ten o’clock. You don’t know how much nicer it is to be in a percession than jest to look at it. I wish you could march, too,” he added politely. “But you’ll come out on the piazza and watch us go by, won’t you?”
And Miss Lucinda promised to be on the spot.
If Jim had never passed another such day, it was as wholly unprecedented in Miss Lucinda Tarbox’s calendar. Jim marched by the house as proud as a peacock in his new soldier suit, and raised a cheer to Miss Lucinda so loud and hearty that she retired blushing into the house. Then after dinner there was nothing for Miss Lucinda but to come out on the piazza and watch Jim fire off some of his crackers; and there the poor lady sat cringing and shrinking and trying to smile each time Jim would shout, “That’s the loudest of all!”
But the climax of the day was reached when Jim brought the minister home to supper. How it happened that the minister appeared upon the scene at tea-time, Miss Lucinda could not understand; but when he arrived, and Jim whispered in a loud aside, “I thought p’r’aps he might stay to supper,” there was no alternative but a cordial invitation, which the minister accepted promptly. Miss Lucinda likewise never knew the remarks with which Jim escorted the minister to the house. “She’s the very nicest woman in the world,” he told the minister, “and I think she thinks you’re a pretty nice sort of a chap.” The minister never repeated these compliments of Jim’s to Miss Lucinda.
After tea, Jim’s secret was revealed; he had invested the larger part of his small earnings in fireworks, which he was quite sure Miss Lucinda would enjoy, and he had invited the minister to supper that he might help him set them off. So Miss Lucinda came out on the porch in the darkness, and the minister and Jim paraded about in the neat little garden in front, and proceeded to diminish Jim’s purchases. Presently the minister came up on the piazza and sat down beside Miss Lucinda, for the remaining fireworks could easily be disposed of by Jim. But just as the minister was considering whether the time was propitious for an advancement of his own interests, there came a sudden sharp cry from Miss Lucinda, and he turned to see a line of flame running about the paper belt of the gallant little showman. The minister was quick in his movements, and was down the path and had Jim in his arms and the fire smothered in a few moments, while Miss Lucinda was by his side, sobbing and bending over Jim’s little form.