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 CÆsar 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.