"When does Fourth of July come?" asked Mr. Smith, abruptly.
"It's three weeks from day after to-morrow," cried Joe, springing up, and running for the almanac.
"Weill, what are you going to do on the Fourth?" said their father.
"Oh, everything," cried Joe, while Harper came in on the chorus; and Lucy beat a soft little tune on her father's shoulder with her hand.
"You said you'd give us more money this Fourth," cried Harper, seeing his chance. "Don't you remember? 'Cause we're bigger, you know."
"And so you'll try to blow off your heads harder than ever, I suppose," said Mr. Smith, with a twinkle in the eye next to Harper. "And then who's to pay the doctor's bills, I wonder?"
"If our heads were off, we wouldn't have to have the doctor," suggested Joe, dreadfully afraid the money wasn't coming.
"True enough," laughed his father. "Well, heads stand for everything else—all the hurts, I mean."
"I ain't goin' to blow off my head," declared Harper, getting up in an anxious way, and standing in front of his father. "Say, father, I promise you I won't. Do give us the money—do."
"Do you want more than you had before?" asked his father, pulling his ear.