Part 2 (1/2)

”Oh, I don't expect to be entertained,” returned Christopher brightly.

”Don't have me on your mind at all. I'll look after myself.”

”That's right! That's right!” exclaimed his father, as if relieved by the intelligence. ”You are welcome to go anywhere you like. Everybody knows you by sight and understands you are to be around here for a while. Just don't get into mischief. And see you are ready promptly at one to go to luncheon with me.”

”You can count on me for that!”

”I'll wager I can.”

With these words Mr. Burton opened the door of his office and disappeared.

Christopher hung up his hat and coat and hesitated uncertainly for a moment. He did not really know what he wanted to do. A general atmosphere of business of which he became instantly aware made him feel like an intruder. The men greeted him, it is true, but with minds focused far less on the salutation than on the various missions that drove them hither and thither.

There was something almost ludicrous about the seriousness with which they took this matter of rings and necklaces. One would have thought the affairs of a nation occupied them, so anxious and hurried were they.

He sauntered along the balcony in the wake of a red-cheeked young clerk who had bowed to him pleasantly and looked less as if he were speeding to save a burning s.h.i.+p or warn the king he was about to be blown up than did some of the others; and when this guide turned into a long, brilliantly lighted room, Christopher, having nothing better to do, entered too.

”You haven't finished that bracket clock yet, have you, McPhearson?”

called the salesman, approaching a little old man who with a microscope to one eye was bending over a bench littered with small steel tools.

”Not yet, Bailey,” the clockmaker replied without, however, looking up.

”She's a queer piece, that clock--not one for ordinary treatment.”

”But you can put her in shape, can't you?” came a bit anxiously from Bailey.

At the words a slow smile puckered the Scotchman's lips and for the first time he stole a glance at the speaker.

”Don't fret, Bailey,” he drawled.

”I'm not fretting, Mr. McPhearson. But the woman who owns that clock won't sleep nights until she gets it home again.”

”I don't blame her,” was all McPhearson said.

”It's a good one, eh?”

”It's a dandy. I'd give my head for one like it. Genuine from start to finish and listed in the book. It was made by Richard Parsons of Number 15 Goswell Street, London, somewhere about 1720--at least he is down as a member of the Clockmakers' Company right along then. Pity he can't know his handiwork is still doing duty. He'd be proud of it. Two hundred years or more isn't a bad record for a clock.”

”Two hundred years!” gasped Christopher involuntarily.

McPhearson peeped up over his microscope.

”This is Mr. Burton's son, McPhearson,” put in Bailey.

”I know, I know. I've seen him round here ever since he could toddle.

Good morning, youngster. So you've come to explore the repairing department, have you?”

The informality of the greeting was delightful to Christopher, and immediately his heart went out to the old Scotchman.

”I guess so, yes,” smiled he. ”I didn't know I was going to though. It just happened.”