The next night was a gala one, and a merrier set of negroes never sang at a corn-shucking, nor did a jollier leader than Wash ever tread the pile, while Mercy sat on a throne of shucks receiving Sambo's homage, and, unmolested by fear, coyly held a corncob between her teeth as she hung her head and bashfully consented that he should come next day to "ax Mas' Ned de liberty of de plantashun."
"But, Edward," said I, "why did those three powders turn black?"
"Because they were calomel, my dear, and it was lime-water that was poured on them," said Mr. Smith.
"Well, but why did not the others turn black too?"
"Because the others were tartarized antimony."
"Where did you get what was in the plates, that made the lights, you know?"
"Rutherford had the material. He is going to settle in a small country town, so he provided himself with all sorts of drugs and chemicals before he left Philadelphia."
"But, Edward," persisted I, putting my hand over his book to make him stop reading, "how came those things where they were found? and the balloon to ascend just at the proper moment? and who or what was it screaming so? Neither you nor Dr. Rutherford had left the yard except to go into the house."
"No, my dear; but you remember Dick Kirby came over just after dinner, and he would not ask any better fun than to fix all that."