Then Harris tried it; then Charley Marden; then I took it again, and after three or four trials was on the point of giving it up as a bad job, when the obstinate thing went off with a tremendous explosion, nearly jerking my arm from the socket.

The smoke cleared away, and there I stood with the stock of the pistol clutched convulsively in my hand--the barrel, lock, trigger, and ramrod having vanished into thin air.
"Are you hurt ?" cried the boys, in one breath.
"N--no," I replied, dubiously, for the concussion had bewildered me a little.
When I realized the nature of the calamity, my grief was excessive.

I can't imagine what led me to do so ridiculous a thing, but I gravely buried the remains of my beloved pistol in our back garden, and erected over the mound a slate tablet to the effect that "Mr.Barker formerly of new Orleans, was killed accidentally on the Fourth of July, 18-- in the 2nd year of his Age." Binny Wallace, arriving on the spot just after the disaster, and Charley Marden (who enjoyed the obsequies immensely), acted with me as chief mourners.

I, for my part, was a very sincere one.
As I turned away in a disconsolate mood from the garden, Charley Marden remarked that he shouldn't be surprised if the pistol-butt took root and grew into a mahogany-tree or something.

He said he once planted an old musket-stock, and shortly afterwards a lot of shoots sprung up! Jack Harris laughed; but neither I nor Binny Wallace saw Charley's wicked joke.
We were now joined by Pepper Whitcomb, Fred Langdon, and several other desperate characters, on their way to the Square, which was always a busy place when public festivities were going on.