The Phoenix and the Carpet

I

The Egg

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.