f an umbrella and a gas-bracket,
which, if not so accurate as a Martini-Henry, was, at all events, more
deadly. With half the garden-hose, a copper scalding-pan out of
the dairy, and a few Dresden china ornaments off the drawing-room
mantelpiece, he would build a fountain for the garden. He could make
bookshelves out of kitchen tables, and crossbows out of crinolines. He
could dam you a stream so that all the water would flow over the croquet
lawn. He knew how to make red paint and oxygen gas, together with many
other suchlike commodities handy to have about a house. Among other
things he learned how to make fireworks, and after a few explosions of
an unimportant character, came to make them very well indeed. The boy
who can play a good game of cricket is liked. The boy who can fight well
is respected. The boy who can cheek a master is loved. But the boy who
can make fireworks is revered above all others as a boy belonging to a
superior order of beings. The fifth of November was at hand, and with
the consent of an indulgent mother, he determined to give to the world
a proof of his powers. A large party of friends, relatives, and
school-mates was invited, and for a fortnight beforehand the scullery
was converted into a manufactory for fireworks. The female servants
went about in hourly terror of their lives, and the villa, did we judge
exclusively by smell, one might have imagined had been taken over by
Satan, his main premises being inconveniently crowded, as an annex. By
the evening of the fourth all was in readiness, and samples were tested
to make sure that no contretemps should occur the following night. All
was found to be perfect.

The rockets rushed heavenward and descended in stars, the Roman candles
tossed their fiery balls into the darkness, the Catherine wheels
sparkled and whirled, the crackers cracked, and the squibs banged. That
night he went to bed a proud and happy boy, and dreamed of fame. He
stood surrounded by blazing fireworks, and the vast crowd cheered him.
His relations, most of whom, he knew, regarded him as the coming idiot
of the family, were there to witness his triumph; so too was Dickey
Bowles, who laughed at him because he could not throw straight. The girl
at the bun-shop, she also was there, and saw that he was clever.

The night of the festival arrived, and with it the guests. They sat,
wrapped up in shawls and cloaks, outside the hall door--uncles, cousins,
aunts, little boys and big b