Two years before, Colonel Harrington had erected at his own expense a
lofty flagpole at the side of the cannon and donated an elegant flag.
Every Washington's Birthday and Fourth of July since, this site had been
the center of all public patriotic festivities, and the headquarters for
celebrating for juvenile Pleasantville.
Bart was a little startled as he comprehended what was in the wind. He
thrilled a trifle; his eyes sparkled brightly.
"It's all right, Stirling," assured Dale Wacker. "We cleaned out the
barrel and we've rammed home a good solid charge, with a long fuse ready
to light. Guess it will stir up the sleepy old town for once, hey?"
Bart was in for any harmless sport, yet he fumbled the lighted piece of
punk undecidedly.
"I don't know about this, fellows"--he began.
"Oh! don't spoil the fun, Stirling," pleaded little Ned Sawyer, a rare
favorite with Bart. "We asked one-legged Dacy on the quiet. He was in
the war, and he says the gun can't burst, or anything."
The crowd kept pushing Bart forward in eager excitement.
"Why don't you light it yourself?" inquired Bart of Dale.
"I've sprained my foot--limping now," explained young Wacker.
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