Part 11 (2/2)
”And the clock--has it bears too?”
”It certainly has. Three minutes before the hour a c.o.c.k gives warning of the time by crowing and flapping its carved wings. Then out comes a procession of bears that march solemnly round a bearded Father Time, whereupon the c.o.c.k crows again, and a jester, hammer in hand, strikes a bell. At the sound the bearded old man raises his sceptre, opens his mouth, and turns an hourgla.s.s. And at each stroke of the bell a bear nods his head. All this done, the c.o.c.k crows again and the fantastic pantomime is finished.
”You therefore can see how it came about that when the n.o.bles and the rich began to wish to have clocks of their own, in order to save the trouble of sending their servants to the public square to find out all the big clocks had to tell, clockmakers felt they must give them at least some of the things to which they had become accustomed, and therefore made clocks showing the sun, moon, stars, or tides, or those that would play tunes on miniature chimes of six or eight bells. It was all a relic of the past. Possibly, too, clockmakers were curious to see what they could do in more limited s.p.a.ce. Be this as it may, musical clocks died hard. The old bracket clock we have just sent home, you will recall, played seven different tunes. Purchasers liked the notion of having music to mark the hours. Later on, however, when they became better educated, the frivolous little tinkling jigs and dances gave place to a more dignified and sonorous striking of a single rich-toned bell, or a group of such bells, and resulted in the Westminster chimes or others not unlike them.”
”The little tunes were mighty jolly though,” observed Christopher, with evident regret.
”Very jolly indeed. Nevertheless one tired of them sooner than of the graver notes. I think I told you how, when Richard Parsons' clock made its first appearance here in the shop, everybody within hearing distance dropped his work and came running to listen to its music. The men were eager as children. For days they watched the time so to be sure not to miss nine, twelve, and three o'clock. Then the novelty wore off, and the audience gradually diminished.”
”I should never be tired of listening,” Christopher announced.
”Nor I. Perhaps, though, that is because the quaintness of the themes appeals to us more than does the tone of the bells themselves, for their cadence is, you must admit, a bit thin and suggestive of a music box.”
”Maybe. But I like music boxes.”
”In that case, Richard Parsons' music cannot fail to please you. Who knows but you may be owning one of these bracket clocks of your own some day? You better begin to save up your pennies.”
”It would take too many, I'm afraid.”
”I grant that it would take quite a few.”
CHAPTER VII
AN EXCURSION
Another week pa.s.sed and still no tidings of the stolen diamonds came.
The inspector, to be sure, a.s.serted with high confidence that he had clews but apparently they were tangled tracks reaching too far away to bring immediate results; neither would he confide what they were.
Instead he shook his head sagely, cautioned patience, and merely observed he was giving the culprits plenty of rope.
This information was disheartening enough to Mr. Burton, his partner, and Christopher himself, but to the unfortunate Hollings it was well-nigh exasperating.
”Anybody'd think we had half a century to land those thieves,” snarled he. ”Why, they have had almost time enough to get to Holland or Siam, and dispose of their loot. I can't see what the police are thinking of not to round them up quicker than this. Since they have a description of the men and can even call them by names there is no excuse for them--none.”
”My father seems to think the men at headquarters know what they are about,” Christopher said, making an attempt to soothe the ire of the distressed clerk.
”Maybe they do,” sighed Hollings. ”I hope so.” Nevertheless, there was no spontaneity in his optimism.
Thus the days went along and Christopher came to find in them great contentment. Perhaps his serenity was due in part to the fact that the weakness of his eyes shut him out so completely from almost every other diversion that he welcomed any sort of companions.h.i.+p with disproportionate appreciation. He could not read, he could not write, he could go neither to the theater nor the movies. And while he thus halted and marked time, the world and everybody in it marched along without giving him a thought. What marvel, therefore, that he attached himself eagerly to any person who was kind and willing to bother with him?
It had not taken him long to sift out those who tolerated him from motives of pity or policy and those who really liked him, and he was not a little proud to cla.s.s in the latter group both Mr. Rhinehart and the Scotchman, McPhearson. Mr. Rhinehart not only had boys of his own but was in addition enough of a boy himself to be dowered with a keen sympathy and understanding of them.
McPhearson, on the other hand, was a solitary creature whose forlornity prompted him to take with gladness any hand stretched out to him. He lived alone in dingy bachelor quarters, where, save for his books and his flute, he had few companions. Therefore he came to look forward to Christopher's daily visits with an even greater degree of antic.i.p.ation than did the lad himself.
”I've got to go out to-day,” was his greeting when Christopher made his appearance on a cold December morning.
The boy's face fell.
”What do you say to coming with me? Would your father be willing?”
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