"The next specimen of pyrotechny will go up in the air, bust, and become an eagle. Said eagle will soar away into the western skies, leavin' a red trail behind him as he so soars." But, alas! again. No eagle soared, but, on the contrary, that ordinary proud bird buried its head in the grass. The people were dissatisfied. They made sarcastic remarks. Some of them howled angrily. The aged man who had before spoken said, "No, Reuben, you evidently don't understand pyrotechny." Pettingill boiled with rage and disappointment. "You don't understand pyrotechny!" the masses shouted. Then they laughed in a disagreeable manner, and some unfeeling lads threw dirt at our hero. "You don't understand pyrotechny!" the masses yelled again. "Don't I?" screamed Pettingill, wild with rage; "don't you think I do?" Then seizing several gigantic rockets he placed them over a box of powder, and touched the whole off. THIS rocket went up. It did, indeed. There was a terrific explosion. No one was killed, fortunately; though many were injured. The platform was almost torn to pieces. But proudly erect among the falling timbers stood Pettingill, his face flashing with wild triumph; and he shouted: "If I'm any judge of pyrotechny, THAT rocket has went off." Then seeing that all the fingers on his right hand had been taken close off in the explosion, he added: "And I ain't so dreadful certain but four of my fingers has went off with it, because I don't see 'em here now!" 3.9. THE LAST OF THE CULKINSES. A DUEL IN CLEVELAND--DISTANCE TEN PACES--BLOODY RESULT--FLIGHT OF ONE OF THE PRINCIPALS--FULL PARTICULARS.