Wayfarers on the far side of Our Square used to stop before Number 37and wonder. The little house, it seemed, was making music at them."Kleam, kleam, kleam, kleam," it would pipe pleasantly.
"BHONG! BHONG! BHONG!" solemn and churchly, in rebuke of its own levity.
"Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang! Kung-glang!"That was a duet in the middle register.
Then from some far-off aerie would ring the tocsin of an elfinsilversmith, fast, furious, and tiny:
"Ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping-ping!"
We surmised that a retired Swiss bell-ringer had secluded himself in ourremote backwater of the great city to mature fresh combinations ofhis art.
Before the Voices came, Number 37 was as quiet a house as any in theSquare. Quieter than most, since it was vacant much of the time and theceremonious sign of the Mordaunt Estate, "For Rental to SuitableTenant," invited inspection. "Suitable" is the catch in thatinnocent-appearing legend. For the Mordaunt Estate, which is no estateat all and never has been, but an ex-butcher of elegant proclivitiesnamed Wagboom, prefers to rent its properties on a basis of prejudicerather than profit, and is quite capable of rejecting an applicant asunsuitable on purely eclectic grounds, such as garlic for breakfast, ora glass eye.
How the new tenant had contrived to commend himself to Mr.Mordaunt-Wagboom is something of a mystery. Probably it was his namerather than his appearance, which was shiny, not to say seedy. Heencountered the Estate when that incorporated gentleman was engaged inpainting the front door, and, in a deprecating voice, inquired whethertwenty-five dollars a month would be considered.
"Maybe," returned the Estate, whereupon the stranger introduced himself,with a stiff little bow, as Mr. Winslow Merivale.
Mr. Wagboom was favorably impressed with this, as possessingaristocratic implications.
"The name," he pronounced, "is satisfactory. The sum is satisfactory. Itis, however, essential that the lessor should measure up in characterand status to the standards of the Mordaunt Estate." This he had adaptedfrom the prospectus of a correspondence school, which had come to himthrough the mail, very genteelly worded. "Family man?" he added briskly.
"Yes, sir."
"How many of you?"
"Two."
"Wife?"
"No, sir," said the little man, very low.
"Son? Daughter? What age?"
"I have never been blessed with a child."
"Then who--"
"Willy Woolly would share the house with me, sir."
For the first time the Mordaunt Estate noticed a small, fluffy poodle,with an important expression, seated behind the railing.
"I don't like dogs," said the Mordaunt Estate curtly.
"Willy Woolly"--Mr. Winslow Merivale addressed his companion--"thisgentleman does not like dogs."
The Mordaunt Estate felt suddenly convicted of social error. The feelingdeepened when Willy Woolly advanced, reckoned him up with an appraisingeye, and, without the slightest loss of dignity, raised himself on hishind legs, offering the gesture of supplication. He did not, however,droop his paws in the accepted canine style; he joined them, finger tipto finger tip, elegantly and piously, after the manner of theMaiden's Prayer.
The Estate promptly capitulated.
"Some pup!" he exclaimed. "When did you want to move in?"
"At once, if you please."
Before the Estate had finished his artistic improvements on the frontdoor, the new tenant had begun the transfer of his simple lares andpenates in a big hand-propelled pushcart. The initial load consisted inthe usual implements of eating, sitting, and sleeping. But the burden ofthe half-dozen succeeding trips was homogeneous. Clocks. Big clocks,little clocks, old clocks, new clocks, fat clocks, lean clocks, solemnclocks, fussy clocks, clocks of red, of green, of brown, of pink, ofwhite, of orange, of blue, clocks that sang, and clocks that rang,clocks that whistled, and blared, and piped, and drummed. One by one,the owner established them in their new domicile, adjusted them, dustedthem, and wound them, and, as they set themselves once more to theirmeticulous busy-ness, that place which had for so long been muffled inquiet and deadened with dust, gave forth the tiny bustle of unrestingmechanism and the pleasant chime of the hours. Number 37 became theHouse of Silvery Voices.
* * * * *
Thus came to Our Square, to be one of us, for better or for worse, Mr.Winslow Merivale, promptly rechristened Stepfather Time. The BonnieLassie gave him the name. She said that only a stepfather could bring uphis charges so badly. For his clocks were both independent andirresponsible, though through no fault of their own. When they werewound they went. When they were unwound they rested. Seldom were morethan half of them simultaneously busy, and their differences of opinionas to the hour were radical and irreconcilable. The big, emphaticeight-day, opposite the front door, might proclaim that it was eleven,only to be at once contradicted by the little tinkler on the parlormantel, which announced that it was six, thereby starting up thecathedral case on the stairway and the Grandfather in the dining-room,who held out respectively for eight and two, while all the time it wasreally half-past one. Thence arose in the early days painfulmisunderstandings on the part of Our Square, for we are a simple peopleand deem it the duty of a timepiece to keep time. In particular we werebefooled by Grandfather, the solemn-voiced Ananias of a clock with along-range stroke and a most convincing manner. So that Schepstein, thenote-shaver, on his way to a profitable appointment at 11 A.M., heardthe hour strike (thirty-five minutes in advance of the best professionalopinion) from the House of Silvery Voices, and was impelled to therecklessness of hiring a passing taxi, thereby reaching his destinationwith half an hour to spare and half a dollar to lack, for which latterhe threatened to sue the Mordaunt Estate's tenant. To the credit side ofthe house's account it must be set down that MacLachan, the tailor,having started one of his disastrous drunks within the precincts of hisHome of Fashion, was on his way to finish it in the gutter via thezigzag route from corner saloon to corner saloon, when the TwelveApostles clock in the basement window lifted up its voice and(presumably through the influence of Peter) thrice denied the hour,which was actually a quarter before midnight. "Losh!" said MacLachan,who invariably reacted in tongue to the stimulus of Scotch whiskey,"they'll a' be closed. Hame an' to bed wi' ye, waster of the pricelesshours!" And back he staggered to sleep it off.
Then there was the disastrous case of the Little Red Doctor, who set outto attend a highly interesting consultation at 4 P.M. and, hearingGrandfather Ananias strike three, erroneously concluded that he hadspare time to stop in for a peek at Madame Tallafferr's gout (which wasreally vanity in the guise of tight shoes), and reached the hospital,only to find it all over and the patient dead.
"It's an outrage," declared the Little Red Doctor fiercely, "that an oldlunatic can move in here from God-knows-where in a pushcart and playmerry hell with a hard-working practitioner's professional duties. Andyou're the one to tell him so, Dominie. You're the diplomat ofthe Square."
He even inveigled the Bonnie Lassie into backing him up in thispreposterous proposal. She had her own grievance against the House ofSilvery Voices.
"It isn't the way it plays tricks on time alone," said she. "There's oneclock in there that's worse than conscience."
And she brought her indictment against a raucous timepiece which waswont to lead up to its striking with a long, preliminaryclack-and-whirr, alleging that twice, when she had quit her sculpingearly because the clay was obdurate and wouldn't come right, and hadgone for a walk to clear her vision, the clock had accosted her in theseunjustifiable terms:
"Clacketty-whirr-rr-rr! Back-to-yer-worr-rr-rrk! Yerr-rr-rr-rr wrong!wrong! wrong! wrong!"
"Wherefore," said the Bonnie Lassie, "your appellant prays that you be adear, good, stern, forbidding Dominie and go over to Number 37 and askhim what he means by it, anyway, and tell him he's got to stop it."
Now, the Bonnie Lassie holds the power of the high, the middle, and thelow justice over all Our Square by the divine right of loveliness andkindliness. So that evening I went while the Little Red Doctor, as aself-constituted Committee in Waiting, sat on my bench. Stepfather Timehimself opened the door to me.
"What might they call you, sir, if I may ask?" he inquired with timidcourtesy.
"They might call me the Dominie hereabouts. And they do."
"I have heard of you." He motioned me to a seat in the bare little room,alive with tickings and clickings. "You have lived long here, sir?"
"Long."
From some interminable distance a voice of time mocked me with a subtleand solemn mockery: "Long. Long. Long."
My host waited for the clock to finish before he spoke again. As Iafterward discovered, this was his invariable custom.
"I, too, am an old man," he murmured.
"A hardy sixty, I should guess."
"A long life. Might I ask you a question, sir,' as to the folk in thisSquare?" He hesitated a moment after I had nodded. "Are they, as onemight say, friendly? Neighborly?"
I was a little taken aback. "We are not an intrusive people."
"No one," he said, "has been to see my clocks."
I began to perceive that this was a sad little man, and to mislike myerrand. "You live here quite alone?" I asked.
"Oh, no!" said he quickly. "You see, I have Willy Woolly. Pardon me. Ihave not yet presented him."
At his call the fluffy poodle ambled over to me, sniffed at my extendedhand, and, rearing, set his paws on my knee.
"He greets you as a friend," said my new acquaintance in a tone whichindicated that I had been signally honored. "I trust that we shall seeyou here often, Mr. Dominie. Would you like to inspect mycollection now?"
Here was my opening. "The fact is--" I began, and stopped from sheercowardice. The job was too distasteful. To wound that gentle pride inhis possessions which was obviously the life of the singular beingbefore me--I couldn't do it. "The fact is," I repeated, "I--I have afriend outside waiting for me. The Little Red Doctor--er--Dr. Smith,you know."
"A physician?" he said eagerly. "Would he come in, do you think? WillyWoolly has been quite feverish to-day."
"I'll ask him," I replied, and escaped with that excuse.
When I broke it to the Little Red Doctor, the mildest thing he said tome was to ask me why I should take him for a dash-binged vet!
Appeals to his curiosity finally overpersuaded him, and now it was myturn to wait on the bench while he invaded the realm of the Voices.Happily for me the weather was amiable; it was nearly two hours beforemy substitute reappeared. He then tried to sneak away without seeing me.Balked in this cowardly endeavor, he put on a vague professionalexpression and observed that it was an obscure case.
"For a man of sixty," I began, "Mr. Merivale--"
"Who?" interrupted the Little Red Doctor; "I'm speaking of the dog."
"Have you, then," I inquired in insinuating accents, "become adash-binged vet?"
"A man can't be a brute, can he!" he retorted angrily. "When thatanimated mop put up his paws and stuck his tongue out like a child--"
"I know," I said. "You took on a new patient. Probably gratis," I added,with malice, for this was one of the Little Red Doctor's notoriouslyweak points.
"Just the same, he's a fool dog."
"On the contrary, he is a person of commanding intellect and nice socialdiscrimination," I asserted, recalling Willy Woolly's flatteringacceptance of myself.
"A faker," asseverated my friend. "He pretends to see things."
I sat up straight on my bench. "Things? What kind of things?"
"Things that aren't there," returned the Little Red Doctor, and fell tomusing. "They couldn't be," he added presently and argumentatively.
Receiving no encouragement when I sought further details, I askedwhether he had called the new resident to account for the delinquenciesof his clocks. He shook his head.
"I didn't have time," said he doggedly.
"Time? Why, there's nothing but time in that house."
The Little Red Doctor chose to take my feeble joke at par. "No time atall. None of the clocks keep it."
"How does he manage his life, then?"
"Willy Woolly does that for him. Barks him up in the morning. Jogs hiselbow at mealtimes. Tucks him in bed at night, for all I know."
Thus abortively ended Our Square's protest against Stepfather Time andhis House of Silvery Voices. The Little Red Doctor's obscure suggestionstuck in my mind, and a few nights later I made a second call. Curiosityrather than neighborliness was the inciting cause. Therefore I ought tohave been embarrassed at the quiet warmth of my reception by both of thetenants. Interrupting himself in the work of adjusting a newacquisition's mechanism, Stepfather Time settled me into the mostcomfortable chair and immediately began to talk of clocks.
Good talk, it was; quaint and flavorous and erudite. But my attentionkept wandering to Willy Woolly, who, after politely kissing my hand, hadsettled down behind his master's chair. Willy Woolly was seeing things.No pretense about it. His mournful eyes yearned hither and thither,following some entity that moved in the room, dimmer than darkness, moreethereal than shadow. His ears quivered. A muffled, measured thumpingsounded, dull and indeterminate like spirit rapping; it took me anappreciable time to identify it as the noise of the poodle's tail,beating the floor. Once he whined, a quick, quivering, eager note. Andstill the amateur of clocks murmured his placid lore. It was rather morethan old nerves could stand.
"The dog," I broke in upon the stream of erudition. "Surely, Mr.Merivale--"
"Willy Woolly?" He looked down, and the faithful one withdrew himselffrom his vision long enough to lick the master hand. "Does hedisturb you?"
"Oh, no," I answered, a little confused. "I only thought--it seemed thathe is uneasy about something."
"There are finer sensibilities than we poor humans have," said my hostgravely.
"Then you have noticed how he watches and follows?"
"He is always like that. Always, since."
His "since" was one of the strangest syllables that ever came to myears. It implied nothing to follow. It was finality's self.
"It is"--I sought a word--"interesting and curious," I concluded lamely,feeling how insufficient the word was.
"She comes back to him," said my host simply.
No need to ask of whom he spoke. The pronoun was as final and definitiveas his "since." Never have I heard such tenderness as he gave to itsutterance. Nor such desolation as dimmed his voice when he added:
"She never comes back to me."
That evening he spoke no more of her. Yet I felt that I had beenadmitted to an intimacy. And, as the habit grew upon me thereafter ofdropping in to listen to the remote, restful, unworldly quaintnesses ofhis philosophy, fragments, dropped here and there, built up the outlineof the tragedy which had left him stranded in our little backwater ofquiet. She whom he had cherished since they were boy and girl together,had died in the previous winter. She had formed the whole circle of hisexistence within which he moved, attended by Willy Woolly, happilygathering his troves. Her death had left him not so much alone as alienin the world. He was without companionship except that of Willy Woolly,without interest except that of his timepieces, and without hope exceptthat of rejoining her. Once he emerged from a long spell of musing, tosay in a tone of indescribable conviction:
"I suppose I was the happiest man in the world."
Any chance incident or remark might turn his thought and speech,unconscious of the transition, from his favorite technicalities back tothe past. Some comment of mine upon a specimen of that dismal songster,the cuckoo clock, which stood on his mantel, had started him into one ofhis learned expositions.
"The first cuckoo clock, as you are doubtless aware, sir"--he was alwaysscrupulous to assume knowledge on the part of his hearer, no matter howabstruse or technical the subject; it was a phase of his inherentcourtesy--"was intended to represent not the cuckoo, but the blackbird.It had a double pipe for the hours, 'Pit-weep! Pit-weep!' anda single--"
His voice trailed into silence as the mechanical bird of his owncollection popped forth and piped its wooden lay. Willy Woolly patteredover, sat down before it, and, gazing through and beyond the meaninglessface with eyes of adoration whose purport there was no mistaking,whined lovingly.
"When the cuckoo sounded," continued the collector without the slightestchange of intonation, "she used to imitate it to puzzle Willy Woolly. Amerry heart! ... All was so still after it stopped beating. The clocksforgot to strike."
The poodle, turning his absorbed regard from the Presence that movesbeyond time and its perishing voices, trotted to his master and nuzzledthe frail hand.
The hand fondled him. "Yes, little dog," murmured the man. His eyes, sadas those of the animal, quested the dimness.
"Why does she come to him and not to me? He loved her dearly, didn'tyou, little dog? But not as I did." There was a quivering note ofjealousy in his voice. "Why is my vision blinded to what he sees?"
"You have said yourself that there are finer sensibilities than ours," Isuggested.
He shook his head. "It lies deeper than that. I think he is drawing nearher. He used to have a little bark that he kept for her alone. In thedead of night I have heard him give that bark--since. And I knew thatshe was speaking to him. I think that he will go first. Perhaps he willtell her that I am coming.... But I should be very lonely."
"Willy's a stout young thing," I asserted, "with years of life beforehim."
"Perhaps," he returned doubtfully. A gleam of rare fun lit up his pale,vague eyes. "Can't you see him dodging past Saint Peter through thepearly gates" ("I was brought up a Methodist," he added in apologeticexplanation), "trotting along the alabaster streets sniffing about forher among all the Shining Ones, listening for her voice amid the soundof the harps, and when he finds her, hallelujahing with that little barkthat was for her alone: 'Here I am, mistress! Here I am! And he'scoming soon, mistress. Your Old Boy is coming soon.'"
When I retailed that conversation to the Little Red Doctor, he snortedand said that Stepfather Time was one degree crazier than Willy Woollyand that I wasn't much better than a higher moron myself. Well, if I'vegot to be called a fool by my best friends, I'd rather be called it inGreek than in English. It's more euphonious.
* * * * *
The pair in Number 37 soon settled down to a routine life. Every morningStepfather Time got out his big pushcart and set forth in search oftreasure, accompanied by Willy Woolly. Sometimes the dog trotted beneaththe cart; sometimes he rode in it. He was always on the job. Never didhe indulge in those divagations so dear to the normal canine heart.Other dogs and their ways interested him not. Cats simply did not existin his circumscribed life. Even to the shining mark of a boy on abicycle he was indifferent, and when a dog has reached that stage onemay safely say of him that he has renounced the world and all itsvanities. Willy Woolly's one concern in life was his master and theirjoint business.
Soon they became accepted familiars of Our Square. Despite the generalconviction that they were slightly touched, we even became proud ofthem. They lent distinction to the locality by getting written up in aSunday supplement, Willy Woolly being specially photographed therefor, agleam of transient glory, which, however it may have gratified our localpride, left both of the subjects quite indifferent. Stepfather Timemight have paid more heed to it had he not, at the time, been whollypreoccupied in a difficult quest.
In a basement window, far over on Avenue D, stood an old and batteredtimepiece of which Stepfather Time had heard the voice but never seenthe face. Each of three attempts to investigate with a view tonegotiations had been frustrated by a crabbed and violent-looking manwith a repellent club. Nevertheless, the voice alone had ensnared theconnoisseur; it was, by the test of the pipe which he carried on all hisquests, D in alt, and would thus complete the major chord of a chimewhich he had long been building up. (She had loved, best of all,harmonic combinations of the clock bells.) Every day he would halt infront of the place and wait to hear it strike, and its owner would peerout from behind it and shake a wasted fist and curse him with strange,hoarse foreign oaths, while Willy Woolly tugged at his trouser leg andurged him to pass on from that unchancy spot. All that he could learnabout the basement dweller was that his name was Lukisch and he owedfor his rent.
Mr. Lukisch had nothing special against the queer old party who madesheep's eyes at his clock every day. He hated him quite impartially, ashe hated everybody. Mr. Lukisch had a bad heart in more senses than one,and a grudge against the world which he blamed for the badness of hisheart. Also he had definite ideas of reprisal, which were focused by adispossess notice, and directed particularly upon the person andproperty of his landlord. The clock he needed as the instrument of hisvengeance; therefore he would not have sold it at any price to thesheep-eyed old lunatic of the pushcart, who now, on the eve of hiseviction, stood gazing in with wistful contemplation. Presently hepassed on and Mr. Lukisch resumed his tinkering with the clock'sinsides. He was very delicate and careful about it, for these were thefinal touches, preparatory to his leaving the timepiece as a mementowhen he should quietly depart that evening, shortly before nine. Whatmight happen after nine, or, rather, on the stroke of nine, was no worryof his, though it might be and probably would be of the landlord's,provided that heartless extortioner survived it.
Having completed his operations, Mr. Lukisch sat down in a rickety chairand gazed at the clock, face to face, with contemplative satisfaction.Stepfather Time would have been interested in the contrast between thosetwo physiognomies. The clock's face, benign and bland, would havedeceived him. But, innocent though he was in the ways of evil, the man'sface might have warned him.
Something within the clock's mechanism clicked and checked and went onagain. The sound, quite unexpected, gave Mr. Lukisch a bad start. Couldsomething have gone wrong with the combination? Suppose a prematurerelease.... At that panic thought something within Mr. Lukisch's badheart clicked and checked and did not go on again. The fear in his eyesfaded and was succeeded by an expression of surprise and inquiry.Whether the inquiry was answered, nobody could have guessed from thestill, unwinking regard on the face of the victim of heart failure.
By and by a crowd gathered on the sidewalk, drawn by that mysteriousinstinct for sensation which attracts the casual and the idle. Two boldspirits entered the door and stood, hesitant, just inside, awed becausethe clock seemed so startlingly alive in that place. Some one sentupstairs for the landlord, who arrived to bemoan the unjust fates whichhad not only mulcted him of two months' rent with nothing to show for itbut a rickety clock, but had also saddled him with a wholly superfluouscorpse. He abused both indiscriminately, but chiefly the clock becauseit gave the effect of being sentient. So fervently did he curse it thatStepfather Time, repassing with Willy Woolly, heard him and entered.
"And who"--the landlord addressed high Heaven with a gesture at oncepious and pessimistic--"is to pay me fourteen dollars back rent thisdirty beggar owes?"
"The man," said Stepfather Time gently, "is dead."
"He is." The landlord confirmed the unwelcome fact with objurgations."Now must come the po-liss, the coroner, trouble, and expense. And whathave I who run my property honest and respectable got to pay for it?Some rags and a bum clock."
Willy Woolly sniffed at one protruding foot and growled. Dead or alive,this was not Willy Woolly's kind of man. "Now, now, Willy Woolly!"reproved his master. "Who are we that we should judge him?"
"But I don't like him," declared Willy Woolly in unequivocal doglanguage.
"I think from his face that he has suffered much," said the gentlecollector, wise in human pain.
"Me; I suppose I don't suffer!" pointed out the landlord vehemently."Fourteen dollars out. Two months' rent. A bum clock."
He kicked the shabby case which whizzed and birred and struck five. Thevoice of its bell, measured and mellow and pure, was unquestionably Din alt.
"My dear sir," said Stepfather Time urbanely, but quivering underneathhis calm manner with the hot eagerness of the chase, "I will buyyour clock."
A gust of rough laughter passed through the crowd. The injurious word"nut" floated in the air, and was followed by "Verrichter." The landlordtook thought and hope.
"It is a very fine clock," he declared.
"It is a bum clock," Stepfather Time reminded him mildly.
"Stepnadel, the auctioneer, would pay me much money for it."
"I will pay you much money for it."
"How much?"
"Seven dollars. That is one month's rent that he owed."
"Two months' rent I must have."
"One," said Stepfather Time firmly.
"Two," said the landlord insistently.
"Urff! Grr--rr--rr--rrff!" said Willy Woolly in emphatic dissuasion.
Stepfather Time was scandalized. Expert opinion was quite outside ofWilly Woolly's province. Only once in the course of their years togetherhad he interfered in a purchase. Justice compelled Stepfather Time torecall that the subject of Willy's protests on that occasion hadsubsequently turned out to be far less antique than the worm holes inthe woodwork (artificially blown in with powder) would have led theunsuspecting to suppose. But about the present legacy there could be nosuch question. It was genuine. It was old. It was valuable. It possesseda seraphic note pitched true to the long-desired chord.
Extracting a ten-dollar note from his wallet, Stepfather Time waved itbeneath the landlord's wrinkled and covetous nose. The landlordcapitulated. Willy Woolly, sniffing at the clock with fur abristle,lifted up his voice and wailed. Perhaps his delicate nose had alreadydetected the faint, unhallowed odor of the chemicals within. Hestubbornly refused to ride back in the cart with the new acquisition,and was accused of being sulky and childish.
* * * * *
The relic of the late unlamented Lukisch was temporarily installed in ahigh chair before the open window giving on the areaway of Number 37.There it briefly beamed upon the busy life of Our Square with its blandand hypocritical face, and there, thrice and no more, it sounded thepassing of the hours with its sweet and false voice, biding the strokeof nine. Meantime Willy Woolly settled down to keep watch on it andcould not be moved from that duty. Every time it struck the half hegrowled. At the hour he barked and raged. When Stepfather Time sought todraw him away to dinner he committed the unpardonable sin of dog-dom, hesnarled at his master. Turning this strange manifestation over in histroubled mind, the collector decided that Willy Woolly must be ill, andtherefore that evening went to seek the Little Red Doctor andhis wisdom.
Together they came across the park space opposite the House of SilveryVoices in time to witness the final scene.
The new clock struck the half after eight as they reached the turn inthe path. A long, quavering howl, mingled of rage and desperation,answered in Willy Woolly's voice.
"You hear?" said Stepfather Time anxiously to the Little Red Doctor."The dog is not himself."
They saw him rear up against the clock case. He seemed to be trying totear it open with his teeth.
"Willy!" cried his master in a tone such as, I suppose, the well-lovedcompanion had not heard twice before in his life. "Down, Willy!"
The dog drooped back. But it was not in obedience. For once hedisregarded the master's command. Perhaps he did not even hear it in theabsorption of his dread and rage. Step by step he withdrew, then rushedand launched himself straight at the timepiece. Slight though his bulkwas, the impetus of the charge did the work. The clock reeled, toppled,and fell outward through the window; then--
From the House of Silvery Voices rose a roar that smote the heavens. Aroar and a belch of flame and a spreading, poisonous stench that struckthe two men in the park to earth. When they struggled to their feetagain, the smoke had parted and the House of Silvery Voices gaped open,its front wall stripped bodily away. But within, the sound of the busyindustry of time went on uninterrupted.
Weaving and wobbling on his feet, Stepfather Time staggered toward thepot calling on the name of Willy Woolly. At the gate he stopped, putforth his hand, and lifted from the railing a wopsy, woolly fragment, nobigger than a sheet of note paper. It was red and warm and wet.
"He's gone," said Stepfather Time.
The Clock of Conscience took up the tale. "Gone. Gone. Gone," it pealed.
As the collector would not leave the shattered house, they sent for meto stay the night with him. A strange vigil! For now it was the man whofollowed with intent, unworldly eyes that which I, with my lesservision, could not discern. And the Unseen moved swiftly about thedesolate room, low to the floor, and seemed finally to stop, motionlessbeneath a caressing hand. I thought to hear that dull, measured thumpingof a grateful tail, but it was only the Twelve Apostles getting readyto strike.
Only once that night did Stepfather Time speak, and then not to me.
"Tell her," he said in an assured murmur, "that I shan't be long."
"Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long. Not-long," confirmedGrandfather from his stance on the stairway.
In that assurance Stepfather Time fell asleep. He did not go out againwith his pushcart, but sat in the rear room while the Mordaunt Estate inperson superintended the job of putting a new front on the house.
The night after it was finished I received an urgent telephone call tocome there at once. At the entrance I met the Little Red Doctorcoming out.
"The clocks have stopped," said he gently.
So I turned to cross the park with him.
"I shall certify," said he, "heart disease."
"You may certify what you please," said I. "But what do you believe?"
The Little Red Doctor, who prides himself on being a hard-bittedmaterialist, glared at me as injuriously as if my innocent question hadbeen an insult.
"I don't believe it!" he averred violently. "Do you take me for asentimental idiot that I should pin silly labels on my old friend,Death?" His expression underwent a curious change. "But I never saw suchjoy on any living face," he muttered under his breath.
* * * * *
The House of Silvery Voices is silent now. But its echo still lives andmakes music in Our Square. For, with the proceeds of Stepfather Time'sclocks, an astounding total, we have built a miniature clock towerfacing Number 37, with a silvery voice of its own, for memory. TheBonnie Lassie designed the tower, and because there is love andunderstanding in all that the Bonnie Lassie sets her wonder-working handto, it is as beautiful as it is simple. Among ourselves we call it theTower of the Two Faithful Hearts.
The silvery voice within it is the product of a paragon amongtimepieces, a most superior instrument, of unimpeachable constructionand great cost. But it has one invincible peculiarity, the despair ofthe best consulting experts who have been called in to remedy it and,one and all, have failed for reasons which they cannot fathom. Howshould they!
It never keeps time.