THE EVER-GLORIOUS FOURTH
Probably the longest period of time that a boy is capable of
comprehending is that which drags itself out between one Fourth of July
and the next. From Christmas to Christmas is not nearly so long. This is
a question that modern calendar makers should investigate, as Julius
Caesar seems to have overlooked it.
But in spite of everything the Fourth of July was actually approaching.
It was only days away. Sube viewed the advent of the festival with more
than ordinary equanimity. He still had two dollars left from the flyer
in cats, and the authorities had apparently relaxed their efforts to get
him. His continued passing of Dan Lannon on the other side of the street
was simply the survival of an inborn prejudice against the conservators
of law and order. It couldn't have been timidity.
As far as Sube and Gizzard were concerned, the customary pre-holiday
rush for remunerative employment was a thing of the past. They lolled
luxuriantly in the shade while the other boys were picking neighborhood
cherries, manicuring the lawns and doing what they were pleased to call
"odd jobs."
"What's the use killin' ourselves workin'?" Sube asked Gizzard one day
as they lazily passed a ball back and forth in a listless game of catch.
"Of course," he added in the bored tone of the idle rich, "if I didn't
have money, I s'pose I'd get busy, too. I always like to give the
ever-glorious Fourth a good send-off."
At the term "ever-glorious" Gizzard's hand was poised in air. He was
tempted to put Sube out of his misery on the spot; but a natural
repugnance to the destruction of human life stayed the stroke, and he
returned the ball without intent to kill, albeit a little faster than
Sube regarded as entirely necessary.
"Ouch!" cried Sube as the ball stung his bare hand. "Say! What you think
you're playin'? Stinger? I'll show you that two can play at that game!"
He returned the ball with a vengeance.
Gizzard stepped aside and let it pass. "If you're goin' to sling that
hot stuff you can chase it yourself," he muttered sullenly as he threw
himself down on the grass.
"Me chase it!" howled Sube angrily. "Well, I won't! You didn't try to
stop it at all!"
"I'm glad it ain't _my_ ball," remarked Gizzard with an affected lack of
interest.
"It don't make any diff whose ball it is!" Sube glowered over his
reclining chum. "You'll go and get that ball or I'll--"
"Hi, fellers! I've earned twenty cents already this morning!" came a
voice from behind them.
This was from Biscuit Westfall, who had just emerged from the parsonage
tugging a long set of quilting-frames.
"Throw in that ball, will you, Biscuit?" called Gizzard pleasantly.
"It's right by the big elm tree."
Biscuit laid down his burden and complied with the request. Cordial
relations were instantly restored.
"Gee! But there's go'n'ta be an ever-glorious bonfire to-night," Sube
observed. "The kids have got two sheds back of the Gibson Block jus'
cram-full of boxes and barrels--"
"Yes, but there ain't go'n'ta be no bells rung!" was Gizzard's
discouraging interjection.
"Why not, ain't there?" demanded Sube.
"'Cause there ain't!"
"Why not? I'd like to know!"
"'Cause the board of trustees won't let us ring the firebell, and all
the churches have put their solid-ivories together and agreed not to
let their bells be rung! That's why not!"
"Aw, come off!" sneered Sube.
"I guess I know what's in the paper! Don't you read the _Citizen_?"
"Now what do you know about that!" exclaimed Sube disgustedly. "Ain't
that a nice way to celebrate the ever-glorious Fourth!"
"I call it _rotten_!" replied Gizzard feelingly; but it is safe to say
that his feelings were aroused more by Sube's continued repetition of
his new phrase, than disappointment over the modified form of welcome to
the festal day prescribed by certain unpatriotic grown-ups who seemed to
have forgotten that they once were young.
The neither-here-nor-there expression still rankled in Gizzard's memory,
and now Sube was adding vinegar to the wound. But Gizzard realized the
importance of keeping his feelings to himself. He knew that greater
misery would be his lot if Sube ever found out how he felt about it.
"Rotten's no name for it," agreed Sube, scowling. "I guess those ol'
guys have forgot how we signed that Declaration of Independence from
Germany--"
"Germany!" howled Gizzard derisively. "You said Germany! Why, it wasn't
Germany at all! It was _France_!"
"France nothin'! I tell you it was Germany!"
"Look here! They was red-coats, now wasn't they?"
"Yes, but the France soldiers wear red _pants_! Don't you know the diff
between pants and coats! Ha-ha! Can't tell the diff between pants and
coats!"
"Can, too! Can, too! Can, too! C-a-n,--t-o-o!" bawled Gizzard. "And,
anyhow, I knew more'n you did about ringin' the bells! You didn't know
nuthin' about it till I told you!"
"Yes, but I know a pair of pants from a--" Sube stopped short as an idea
came to him. "Say!" he began eagerly, "what's to hinder our sneakin' up
in the Prespaterian steeple and ringin' their ol' bell for em!"
Gizzard shook his head. "Nothin' doin'," he replied promptly. "The paper
says there's goin' to be a watchman at every church in town."
Sube's face relapsed into a scowl. "Did it say who?" he asked
half-heartedly.
"Jus' the sextant."
A look of great joy broke over Sube's countenance. "Ol' Hank Morley!" he
cried. "Why, he's blind in one eye and can't hardly see out of the
other! And he's so feeble he couldn't catch a louse!"
"But how could we get in?" asked Gizzard dubiously.
Sube glanced about for eavesdroppers as he whispered softly, "Cellar
window! They been puttin' in coal for next winter and they've left the
window out."
"Yes, but how could we--"
"Sneak in this afternoon after the last load of coal goes in, and climb
up in the ol' steeple and wait there till they touch off the bonfire,
and then we'll give that ol' bell the most ever-glorious ringin' it ever
got!"
The details were soon arranged. Sube would invite Gizzard to his house
for supper and to spend the night, and Gizzard would, in turn, invite
Sube to his house for supper and lodging, and then! Nothing could be
simpler.
A few moments later Sube was fingering his cap in the presence of Mrs.
Tobin and bashfully requesting that Gizzard be permitted to accept the
hospitality of the Cane household until the following morning.
"Why, it will be all right for Charley to take supper with you, Sube,
but what about the bonfire to-night? I never allow Charley to be out so
late alone, and his uncle Bert was going to take him to see it. He
stopped in here a few minutes ago and said he'd come for Charley at
about eleven."
Sube swallowed once or twice, and then managed to say, "Oh, that's all
right! My mother won't let me go alone, either--"
"But who will go with you?" Mrs. Tobin persisted.
"Why,--why, my father's going with us!"
Mrs. Tobin was mildly astonished. "Your _father_?" she asked.
"Oh, yes'm! My father's crazy about fires! He's stuck on bonfires! But
he likes every kind of fires. He always goes to fires, even in the
middle of the night! He wouldn't miss one for anything! He says a big
bonfire is the noblest way to celebrate the ever-glorious Fourth, and
he's never missed a single one since we signed the Declaration of
Independence from the Germans!"
Sube glanced triumphantly at Gizzard while Mrs. Tobin was busy with her
thoughts. She was a little uncertain whether Sube had misquoted his
father or recent discoveries had upset some more of our traditional
history. What the boy had said, sounded like his father, certainly; and
she decided to read up her history a bit before attempting to correct
him. But while thinking the matter over she busied herself by wrapping
up a package containing a toothbrush and certain other nocturnal
necessities for her son, and reminding him to wash behind his ears and
put on a clean collar before he went.
"It was that there hist'ry that put it acrost," Gizzard admitted as he
and Sube passed out of the house. "It must of been the Germans."
"Why I knew all the time it was the Germans! Don't you s'pose I know the
hist'ry of the country I live in? Now you be sure you call it the
Germans when you go in and spout before _my_ mother."
"Me?--_Me_ spout before _your_ mother?"
"Yes, _you_! Didn't I spout 'fore _your_ mother?"
"Yes, Sube, but I ain't a very good spouter. I get too dumb scairt!"
"Now don't back out on me, Giz!" pleaded Sube, "I got you off, didn't I?
Well, then, you gotta get me off! Now I'll tell you what to do. You tell
her about your uncle Bert first pop, and then she won't have any excuse
to say no!"
"I will if I can remember it," mumbled Gizzard. "I get so scairt I can't
remember nothin'."
Not long afterwards The People _ex rel_ Cane and Tobin against The
Society for the Prevention of Unnecessary Noises, came on for hearing
before Mrs. Justice Cane sitting at Special Term. The argument was
opened on behalf of the relators by Mr. Gizzard Tobin. The speaker's
voice which at first was very low and uncertain, gathered speed and
volume as it proceeded, and finally ended in perfect fury of words.
"My--my mother--she wants to--to know can Sube come over to my
house--for supper to-night--and she wants to know can he stay all night
with me to-night till eleven o'clock--and then she'll call us and wake
us up so's my uncle Bert he can come and get us and take us to see the
bonfire--he likes bonfires, he likes every kind of fires, he always goes
to fires in the night, he's gone to fires ever since the Germans set
fire to the Declaration-ofinna-pen'ance--"
Gizzard's finish was not unlike the explosion of a cannon-cracker after
the proper amount of sizzling at the fuse.
"What is it you are saying, Charley?" gasped Mrs. Cane.
Gizzard turned hopelessly to his co-petitioner. "You tell 'er, Sube."
"I'm invited to his house for supper and to stay all night," Sube
interpreted calmly.
"But what about the Germans setting fire to the Declaration of
Independence?"
"You didn't understand him, he talked so fast. His uncle Bert's dead
stuck on bonfires--"
"Dead stuck?"
"He likes 'em," Sube corrected, "and he wants us to go to bed early, and
then he'll call us a little before midnight, and take us up to see the
bonfire for a little while, and then take us back home again."
"That isn't a good place for boys," ruled Mrs. Cane dubiously. "There's
a very rough element at those bonfires. What does your mother think
about it, Charley? Is she going to--"
"Sure she is! Isn't she, Giz?" interrupted Sube with great enthusiasm.
"Yes, ma'am," mumbled Gizzard unconvincingly.
"That's what he was tryin' to tell you," Sube enlarged. "She likes to
celebrate the ever-glorious Fourth, and she says she's never missed a
bonfire since we signed the Declaration of Independence from the
Germans!"
"If that's the case," said Mrs. Cane with a visible effort to retain
control of herself, "I'll have to let you go--"
"Whoo-oo-pee-ee! Hoo-oo-ray!" and Sube bounded out of the house with
Gizzard at his heels. "Three rousing cheers for the ever-glorious
Fourth!"
And they were gone.