X.—PETTINGILL'S FIREWORKS.
As I said in Chapter VIII., there was an
oration. There were also processions, and
guns, and banners.
“This evening,” said the chairman of
the committee of arrangements, “this evening,
fellow-citizens, there will be a grand
display of fireworks on the village green,
superintended by the inventor and manufacturer,
our public-spirited townsman, Mr.
Reuben Pettingill.”
Night closed in, and an immense concourse
of people gathered on the village
green.
On a raised platform, amidst his fireworks,
stood Pettingill.
He felt that the great hour of his life
was come, and, in a firm, clear voice, he
said:
“The fust fireworks, feller-citizens, will
be a rocket, which will go up in the air,
bust, and assume the shape of a serpint.”
He applied a match to the rocket, but
instead of going up in the air, it flew wildly
down into the grass, running some distance
with a hissing kind of sound, and causing
the masses to jump round in a very insane
manner.
Pettingill was disappointed, but not disheartened.
He tried again.
“The next fireworks,” he said, “will go
up in the air, bust, and become a beautiful
revolvin' wheel.”
But, alas! it didn't. It only ploughed a
little furrow in the green grass, like its unhappy
predecessor.
The masses laughed at this, and one
man—a white-haired old villager—said,
kindly but firmly, “Reuben, I'm 'fraid you
don't understand pyrotechny.”
Reuben was amazed. Why did his
rockets go down instead of up? But, perhaps,
the others would be more successful;
and, with a flushed face, and in a voice
scarcely as firm as before, he said:
“The next specimen of pyrotechny will
go up in the air, bust, and become a eagle.
Said eagle will soar away into the western
skies, leavin' a red trail behind him as he
so soars.”
But, alas! again. No eagle soared, but,
on the contrary, that ordinarily proud bird
buried its head in the grass.
The people were dissatisfied. They
made sarcastic remarks. Some of them
howled angrily. The aged man, who had
before spoken, said, “No, Reuben, you evidently
don't understand pyrotechny.”
Pettingill boiled with rage and disappointment.
“You don't understand pyrotechny!”
the masses shouted.
Then they laughed in a disagreeable
manner, and some unfeeling lads threw dirt
at our hero.
“You don't understand pyrotechny!”
the masses yelled again.
“Don't I?” screamed Pettingill, wild with
rage; “don't you think I do?”
Then seizing several gigantic rockets he
placed them over a box of powder, and
touched the whole off.
This rocket went up. It did, indeed.
There was a terrific explosion.
No one was killed, fortunately; though
many were injured.
The platform was almost torn to pieces.
But proudly erect among the falling timbers
stood Pettingill, his face flashing with
wild triumph; and he shouted: “If I'm
any judge of pyrotechny, that rocket has
went off.”
Then seeing that all the fingers on his
right hand had been taken close off in the
explosion, he added: “And I ain't so dreadful
certain but four of my fingers has went
off with it, because I don't see 'em here
now!”
