'
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.'
'I daresay,' said Cyril, coldly; 'but it's not YOUR eightpence
anyhow--'
'But look here,' said Robert, 'really now, about the fireworks. We
don't want to be disgraced before those kids next door. They think
because they wear red plush on Sundays no one else is any good.'
'I wouldn't wear plush if it was ever so--unless it was black to be
beheaded in, if I was Mary Queen of Scots,' said Anthea, with scorn.
Robert stuck steadily to his point. One great point about Robert
is the steadiness with which he can stick.
'I think we ought to test them,' he said.
'You young duffer,' said Cyril, 'fireworks are like postage-stamps.
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