"Want another?" inquired Henry Burns, calmly. He had not even offered to strike a blow.

Benny Ellison, picking himself up slowly from the dust, hesitated a moment; then backed away.

"I'll have it out with you again some time," he muttered. "I'll get square with you for this."

Henry Burns's eyes twinkled.

"Why not now?" he asked.

Benny Ellison made no reply, but went on up the road.

Bess Thornton's face, radiant with delight as Henry Burns turned to her, suddenly clouded.

"Guess I'll have to look out now," she said. "He'll give it to me, if he catches me."

Henry Burns's face wore an expression of mingled perplexity and embarra.s.sment. Then, as one resolved to see the thing through, he replied, "Come on, I'll get you home all right."

CHAPTER XI

COL. WITHAM GETS THE MILL

It was the evening before the glorious Fourth of July, and Tim Reardon was dragging an iron cannon along the street, by a small rope. It was a curious, clumsy piece of iron-mongery, about a foot and a half long, with a heavily moulded barrel mounted on a block of wood that ran on four wheels; a product of the local machine shop, designed for the purpose of being indestructible rather than for show.

Tim Reardon, smudgy-faced, but wearing an expression of deep satisfaction, paused for a moment before a gate where stood a boy somewhat younger than himself, who eyed the cannon admiringly.

"h.e.l.lo, Willie," said Tim. "Comin' out, ain't yer?"

The boy shook his head, disconsolately.

"What's the matter?"

"Can't," said the boy. "Father won't let me."

Tim looked at him pityingly.

"Won't let you come out the night before the Fourth!" he exclaimed.

"Gee! I'd like to see anybody stop me. What's he 'fraid of?"

"He isn't afraid," replied the boy. "He's mad because they make so much noise he can't sleep. He says they haven't any right to fire off guns and things on the Fourth."

"Hm!" sniffed Tim. "Henry Burns says you have, and I guess he knows.

He's read all about it. He says there was a man named Adams who was a president once, and he said everybody ought to make all the noise they could; get out and fire guns, and blow horns, and beat on pans and yell like everything, and build bonfires and fire off firecrackers."

"Did he?" said the boy. "And did he say anything about getting out the night before?"

"Well, I dunno about that," answered Tim Reardon; "but of course the patrioticker you are, why, the sooner you begin. It's the Fourth of July the minute the clock strikes twelve--and, cracky, won't we make a racket then? Henry Burns, he's got a cannon; and so's Jack Harvey and Tom Harris and Bob White, and the Warren fellers they've got three, and a lot of other fellers have got 'em. Just you wait till the clock strikes, and there'll be some fun."

"I wish I could come out," said the boy, earnestly.

"Too bad you can't. You miss all the fun," said Little Tim. "I'll bet George Washington was out the first of any of 'em on the Fourth of July, when he was a boy."

Tim's knowledge of history was not quite so ample as his patriotic ardour.

"Why don't you come, anyway?" he ventured. "Just tie a string around your big toe, and hang the string out the window, and I'll come around and wake you up. I'm going to wake George Baker that way. I don't go to bed at all the night before the Fourth."

The boy shook his head.

"No, I guess not," he replied. "But say," he added quickly, "come around in front of the house and make all the racket you can, will you? I'd like to hear it, if I can't get out."

"You bet we will," responded Tim, heartily. "Sammy Willis, his father won't let him come out, and we're going 'round there; and Joe Turner, his father won't let him come out, and we're going there, too. There's where we go to, most."

Tim did not explain whether this was from patriotic motives or otherwise. But the small boy looked pleased.

"Be sure and come around," he said.

"Oh, you'll hear from us, all right," replied Tim.

It was quite evident that something would be heard when, some hours later, about a quarter of an hour before midnight, a group of boys had gathered in the square in front of Willie Perkins's house. There was an array of small cannon ranged about that would have sent joy to the heart of a youthful Knox or Steuben. The boys were engaged in the act of loading these with blasting powder, purchased at a reduced price from the rock blasters in the valley below.

"Here you, don't put in so much powder, young fellow," cautioned Harvey to a smaller youth, who was about to pour a handful into a chunky firearm. "Don't you know that it's little powder and lots of wadding that makes her speak? I'll show you."

Harvey measured out a small handful of the coa.r.s.e, black grains, poured them down the barrel, stuffed in some newspaper and rammed it home with a hickory stick. Then he stuffed in a handful of gra.s.s and some more newspaper, hammering on the ram-rod with a brick, regardless of any danger of premature explosion. The coa.r.s.e powder was not "lively,"

however, and had always stood such handling. The process was continued until the cannon was stuffed to the muzzle. Then a few grains were dropped over the touch-hole, a long strip of paper laid over this, weighted down with a small pebble, and was ready for lighting.

"There," said Harvey, relinquishing the ram-rod to the youth, "that'll speak. If you fill 'em full of powder they don't make half the noise."

Simultaneously, Henry Burns, the Warren boys, Tom Harris, Bob White and a dozen other lads had been loading and priming their respective pieces; and presently they stood awaiting the striking of the town clocks.

Willie Perkins's father, who had been hard at work all the evening with a congenial party in his office, at a game of euchre, was just getting his first nap, having congratulated himself on retiring, that, if the neighbourhood's rest was disturbed, his son at least would not contribute toward it. Willie Perkins, having extended a cordial invitation to the boys to come around and visit his esteemed parent, was himself fast asleep.

Clang! The first town clock to take cognizance of the arrival of the glorious Fourth struck a l.u.s.ty note, that rang out loudly on the clear night air. But there was no response from the eager gunners. It was not yet Fourth of July. It would have gone hard with the boy that had fired.

Clang and clang again. The twelfth call was still ringing in the iron throat of the old bell, high in its steeple, when Harvey shouted, "Now give it to her!"

There was a hasty scratching of matches. The strips of paper began to burn; slowly at first, while the boys scattered; then quickly, sputtering as the flame caught the first few grains of powder.

A moment later, it seemed to Willie Perkins's father as though he had been lifted completely out of his bed by some violent concussion, while a roar like the blast of battle shook the house. The glorious Fourth had begun in Benton.

Springing to his feet, Mr. Perkins uttered a denunciation of the day that would have made the signers of the Declaration of Independence turn in their graves, while he rushed to the window. Throwing it open, he peered out into the square. There was not a boy in sight. Retreat had already begun, ignominiously, from the field.

"If they come around again--" muttered Mr. Perkins. He did not finish the sentence, but went along a hallway and looked into his son's room.

"Are you there, William?" he inquired sternly.

"Yes; can I get up now? Must be most morning."