"I've sprained my foot--limping now," explained young Wacker. "She may
kick, you see, and soon as you light her you want to scoot."

"Go ahead, Bart! touch her off," implored little Sawyer, quivering with
excitement.

"Whoop! hurrah!" yelled a frantic chorus as Bart took a voluntary step
up the hill.

That decided him--patriotism was in the air and he was fully infected.
One or two of the larger boys advanced with him, but halted at a safe
distance, while the younger ones danced about and stuck their fingers in
their ears, screaming.

Bart got to the side of the cannon. It was silhouetted in the landscape
on a slight slant towards the stately mansion and grounds of Colonel
Harrington, in full view at all times of the magnate who had improved
its surroundings.

Bart made out a long fuse trailing three feet or more over the side of
the old fieldpiece. He blew the punk to a bright glow.

"Ready!" he called back merrily over his shoulder.

The hillside vibrated with the flutter of expectant juvenile humanity
and a vast babel of half-suppressed excited voices.

Bart applied the punk, there was a fizz, a sharp hiss, a writhing worm
of quick flame, and then came a fearful report that split the air like
the crack of doom.