It began with the day when it was almost the Fifth of November, and
a doubt arose in some breast--Robert's, I fancy--as to the quality
of the fireworks laid in for the Guy Fawkes celebration.

'They were jolly cheap,' said whoever it was, and I think it was
Robert, 'and suppose they didn't go off on the night? Those
Prosser kids would have something to snigger about then.'

'The ones _I_ got are all right,' Jane said; 'I know they are,
because the man at the shop said they were worth thribble the
money--'

'I'm sure thribble isn't grammar,' Anthea said.

'Of course it isn't,' said Cyril; 'one word can't be grammar all by
itself, so you needn't be so jolly clever.'

Anthea was rummaging in the corner-drawers of her mind for a very
disagreeable answer, when she remembered what a wet day it was, and
how the boys had been disappointed of that ride to London and back
on the top of the tram, which their mother had promised them as a
reward for not having once forgotten, for six whole days, to wipe
their boots on the mat when they came home from school.

So Anthea only said, 'Don't be so jolly clever yourself, Squirrel.
And the fireworks look all right, and you'll have the eightpence
that your tram fares didn't cost to-day, to buy something more
with. You ought to get a perfectly lovely Catharine wheel for
eightpence.'