Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Eleven.Oiling the Clock.The plan of the town of Mavis Greythorpe was very simple, being one long street with houses on either side, placed just as the builders pleased. Churchwarden Rounds’ long thatched place stood many yards back, which was convenient, for he liked to grow roses that his neighbours could see and admire. Crumps the cowkeeper’s, too, stood some distance back, but that was handy, for there was room for the cowshed and the dairy close to the path. Dredge, the butcher, had his open shop, too—a separate building from the house at the back—close to the path, where customers could see the mortal remains of one sheep a week, sometimes two, and in the cold weather a pig, and a half or third of a “beast,” otherwise a small bullock, the other portions being retained by neighbouring butchers at towns miles away, where the animal had been slain. But at fair time and Christmas, Butcher, or, as he pronounced it, Buttcher Dredge, to use his own words, “killed hissen” and a whole bullock was on exhibition in his open shop.The houses named give a fair idea of the way in which architecture was arranged for in Mavis; every man who raised a house planted it where it seemed good in his own eyes; and as in most cases wayfarers stepped down out of the main street into the front rooms, the popular way of building seemed to have been that the builder dug a hole and then put a house in it.Among those houses which were flush with the main street was that of Michael Chakes, clerk and sexton, who was also the principal shoemaker of Mavis, and his place of business was a low, open-windowed room with bench and seat, where, when not officially engaged, he sat at work, surrounded by the implements and products of his trade, every now and then opening his mouth and making a noise after repeating a couple of lines, under the impression that he was singing. Upon that point opinions differed.Vane Lee wanted a piece of leather, and as there was nothing at home that he could cut up, saving one of the doctor’s Wellington boots, which were nearly new, he put on his cap, thrust his hands in his pockets, and set off for the town street, as eagerly as if his success in life depended upon his obtaining that piece of leather instanter.The place was perfectly empty as he reached the south end, the shops looked nearly the same, save that at Grader the baker’s there were four covered glasses, containing some tasteless looking biscuits full of holes; a great many flies, hungry and eager to get out, walking in all directions over the panes; and on the lowest shelf Grader’s big tom-cat, enjoying a good sleep in the sun.Vane did not want any of those biscuits, but just then he caught sight of Distin crossing the churchyard, and to avoid him he popped in at the baker’s, to be saluted by a buzz from the flies, and a slow movement on the part of the cat who rose, raised his back into a high arch, yawned and stretched, and then walked on to the counter, and rubbed his head against Vane’s buttons, as the latter thrust his hands into his pocket for a coin, and tapped on the counter loudly once, then twice, then the third time, but there was no response, for the simple reason that Mrs Grader had gone to talk to a neighbour, and John Grader, having risen at three to bake his bread, and having delivered it after breakfast, was taking a nap.“Oh, what a sleepy lot they are here!” muttered Vane,as he went to the door which, as there was no sign of Distin now, and he did not want any biscuits, he passed, and hurried along the street to where Michael Chakes sat in his open window, tapping away slowly at the heavy sole of a big boot which he was ornamenting with rows of hob-nails.Vane stepped in at once, and the sexton looked up, nodded, and went on nailing again.“Oughtn’t to put the nails so close, Mike.”“Nay, that’s the way to put in nails, Mester Vane!” said the sexton.“But if they were open they’d keep a man from slipping in wet and frost.”“Don’t want to keep man from slipping, want to make ’em weer.”“Oh, all right; have it your own way. Here, I want a nice strong new bit of leather, about six inches long.”“What for?”“Never you mind what for, get up and sell me a bit.”“Nay, I can’t leave my work to get no leather to-day, Mester. Soon as I’ve putt in these here four nails, I’m gooing over to belfry.”“What for? Some one dead?”“Nay, not they. Folk weant die a bit now, Mester Vane. I dunno whether it’s Parson Syme’s sarmints or what, but seems to me as if they think it’s whole dooty a man to live to hundred and then not die.”“Nonsense, cut me my bit of leather, and let me go.”“Nay, sir, I can’t stop to coot no leather to-day. I tellee I’m gooin’ to church.”“But what for?”“Clock’s stopped.”“Eh! Has it?” cried Vane eagerly. “What’s the matter with it?”“I d’know sir. Somethin’ wrong in its inside, I spect. I’m gooing to see.”“Forgotten to wind it up, Mike.”“Nay, that I arn’t, sir. Wound her up tight enew.”“Then that’s it. Wound up too tight, perhaps.”“Nay, she’s been wound up just the same as I’ve wound her these five-and-twenty year, just as father used to. She’s wrong inside.”“Goes stiff. Wants a little oil. Bring some in a bottle with a feather and I’ll soon put it right.”The sexton pointed with his hammer to the chimney-piece where a small phial bottle was standing, and Vane took it up at once, and began turning a white fowl’s feather round to stir up the oil.“You mean to come, then?” said the sexton.“Of course. I’m fond of machinery,” cried Vane.“Ay, you be,” said the sexton, tapping away at the nails, “and you’d like to tak’ that owd clock all to pieces, I know.”“I should,” cried Vane with his eyes sparkling. “Shall I?”“What?” cried the sexton, with his hammer raised. “Why, you’d never get it put together again.”“Tchah! that I could. I would somehow,” added the lad. “Ay somehow; but what’s the good o’ that! Suppose she wouldn’t goo when you’d putt her together somehow. What then?”“Why, she won’t go now,” cried Vane, “so what harm would it do?”“Well, I don’t know about that,” said the sexton, driving in the last nail, and pausing to admire the iron-decorated sole.“Now, then, cut my piece of leather,” cried Vane.“Nay, I can’t stop to coot no pieces o’ leather,” said the sexton. “Church clock’s more consekens than all the bits o’ leather in a tanner’s yard. I’m gooing over yonder now.”“Oh, very well,” said Vane, as the man rose, untied his leathern apron, and put on a very ancient coat, “it will do when we come back.”“Mean to go wi’ me, then?”“Of course I do.”The sexton chuckled, took his hat from behind the door, and stepped out on to the cobble-stone pathway, after taking the oil bottle and a bunch of big keys from a nail.The street looked as deserted as if the place were uninhabited, and not a soul was passed as they went up to the church gate at the west end of the ancient edifice, which had stood with its great square stone fortified tower, dominating from a knoll the tiny town for five hundred years—ever since the days when it was built to act as a stronghold to which the Mavis Greythorpites could flee if assaulted by enemies, and shoot arrows from the narrow windows and hurl stones from the battlements. Or, if these were not sufficient, and the enemy proved to be very enterprising indeed, so much so as to try and batter in the hugely-thick iron-studded belfry-door, why there were those pleasant openings called by architects machicolations, just over the entrance, from which ladlesful of newly molten lead could be scattered upon their heads.Michael Chakes knew the bunch of keys by heart, but he always went through the same ceremony—that of examining them all four, and blowing in the tubes, as if they were panpipes, keeping the one he wanted to the last.“Oh, do make haste, Mike,” cried the boy. “You are so slow.”“Slow and sewer’s my motter, Mester Vane,” grunted the sexton, as he slowly inserted the key. “Don’t you hurry no man’s beast; you may hev an ass of your own some day.”“If I do I’ll make him go faster than you do. I say, though, Mike, do you think it’s true about those old bits of leather?”As he spoke, Vane pointed to a couple of scraps of black-looking, curl-edged hide, fastened with broad headed nails to the belfry-door.“True!” cried the sexton, turning his grim, lined, and not over-clean face to gaze in the frank-looking handsome countenance beside him. “True! Think o’ that now, and you going up to rectory every day, to do your larning along with the other young gents, to Mester Syme. Well, that beats all.”“What’s that got to do with it?” cried Vane, as the sexton ceased from turning the key in the door, and laid one hand on the scraps of hide.“Got to do wi’ it, lad? Well I am! And to call them leather.”“Well, so they are leather,” said Vane. “And do you mean to say, standing theer with the turn-stones all around you as you think anything bout t’owd church arn’t true?”“No, but I don’t think it’s true about those bits of leather.”“Leather, indeed!” cried the sexton. “I’m surprised at you, Mester Vane—that I am. Them arn’t leather but all that’s left o’ the skins o’ the Swedums and Danes as they took off ’em and nailed up on church door to keep off the rest o’ the robbin’, murderin’ and firin’ wretches as come up river in their ships and then walked the rest o’ the way across the mash?”“Oh, but it might be a bit of horse skin.”“Nay, nay, don’t you go backslidin’ and thinking such a thing as that, mester. Why, theer was a party o’ larned gentlemen come one day all t’way fro’ Lincoln, and looked at it through little tallerscope things, and me standing close by all the time to see as they didn’t steal nowt, for them sort’s terruble folk for knocking bits off wi’ hammers as they carries in their pockets and spreadin’ bits o’ calico over t’ brasses, and rubbin’ ’em wi’ heel balls same as I uses for edges of soles; and first one and then another of ’em says—‘Human.’ That’s what they says. Ay, lad, that’s true enough, and been here to this day.”“Ah, well, open the door, Mike, and let’s go in. I don’t believe people would have been such wretches as to skin a man, even if he was a Dane, and then nail the skin up there. But if they did, it wouldn’t have lasted.”The sexton shook his head very solemnly and turned the great key, the rusty lock-bolt shooting back reluctantly, and the door turning slowly on its hinges, which gave forth a dismal creak.“Here, let’s give them a drop of oil,” cried Vane; but the sexton held the bottle behind him.“Nay, nay,” he said; “they’re all right enew. Let ’em be, lad.”“How silent it seems without the old clock ticking,” said Vane, looking up at the groined roof where, in place of bosses to ornament the handsome old ceiling of the belfry, there were circular holes intended to pour more lead and arrows upon besiegers, in case they made their way through the door, farther progress being through a narrow lancet archway and up an extremely small stone spiral staircase toward which Vane stepped, but the sexton checked him.“Nay, Mester, I go first,” he said.“Look sharp then.”But the only thing sharp about the sexton were his awls and cutting knives, and he took an unconscionably long time to ascend to the floor above them where an opening in the staircase admitted them to a square chamber, lighted by four narrow lancet windows, and into which hung down from the ceiling, and through as many holes, eight ropes, portions of which were covered with worsted to soften them to the ringers’ hands.Vane made a rush for the rope of the tenor bell, but the sexton uttered a cry of horror.“Nay, nay, lad,” he said, as soon as he got his breath, “don’t pull: ’twould make ’em think there’s a fire.”“Oh, all right,” said Vane, leaving the rope.“Nay, promise as you weant touch ’em, or I weant go no further.”“I promise,” cried Vane merrily. “Now, then, up you go to the clock.”The sexton looked relieved, and went to a broad cupboard at one side of the chamber, opened it, and there before them was the great pendulum of the old clock hanging straight down, and upon its being started swinging, it did so, but with no answeringtic-tac.“Where are the weights, Mike?” cried Vane, thrusting in his head, and looking up. “Oh, I see them.”“Ay, you can see ’em, lad, wound right up. There, let’s go and see.”The sexton led the way up to the next floor, but here they were stopped by a door, which was slowly opened after he had played his tune upon the key pipes.“Oh I say, Mike, what a horrible old bore you are,” cried the boy, impatiently.“Then thou shouldstna hev coom, lad,” said the sexton as they stood now in a chamber through which the bell ropes passed and away up through eight more holes in the next ceiling, while right in the middle stood the skeleton works of the great clock, with all its wheels and escapements open to the boy’s eager gaze, as he noted everything, from the portion which went out horizontally through the wall to turn the hands on the clock’s face, to the part where the pendulum hung, and on either side the two great weights which set the machine in motion, and ruled the striking of the hours.The clock was screwed down to a frame-work of oaken beams, and looked, in spite of its great age and accumulation of dust, in the best of condition, and, to the sexton’s horror, Vane forgot all about the eight big bells overhead, and the roof of the tower, from which there was a magnificent view over the wolds, and stripped off his jacket.“What are you going to do, lad?” cried the sexton.“See what’s the matter. Why the clock won’t go.”“Nay, nay, thou must na touch it, lad. Why, it’s more than my plaace is worth to let anny one else touch that theer clock.”“Oh, nonsense! Here, give me the oil.”Vane snatched the bottle, and while the sexton looked on, trembling at the sacrilege, as it seemed to him, the lad busily oiled every bearing that he could reach, and used the oil so liberally that at last there was not a drop left, and he ceased his task with a sigh.“There, Mike, she’ll go now,” he cried. “Can’t say I’ve done any harm.”“Nay, I wean’t say that you hev, mester, for I’ve been standing ready to stop you if you did.”Vane laughed.“Now, then, start the pendulum,” he said; “and then put the hands right.”He went to the side to start the swinging regulator himself but the sexton again stopped him.“Nay,” he said; “that’s my job, lad;” and very slowly and cautiously he set the bob in motion.“There, I told you so,” cried Vane; “only wanted a drop of oil.”For the pendulum swungtic—tac—tic—tacwith beautiful regularity. Then, as they listened it wenttic—tic. Thentictwo or three times over, and there was no more sound.“Didn’t start it hard enough, Mike,” cried Vane; and this time, to the sexton’s horror, he gave the pendulum a good swing, the regulartic—tacfollowed, grew feeble, stopped, and there was an outburst as if of uncanny laughter from overhead, so real that it was hard to think that it was only a flock of jackdaws just settled on the battlements of the tower.“Oh, come, I’m not going to be beaten like this,” cried Vane, “I know I can put the old clock right.”“Nay, nay, not you,” said the sexton firmly.“But I took our kitchen clock to pieces, and put it together again; and now it goes splendidly—only it doesn’t strike right.”“Mebbe,” said the sexton, “but this arn’t a kitchen clock. Nay, Master Vane, the man ’ll hev to come fro Lincun to doctor she.”“But let me just—”“Nay, nay, you don’t touch her again.”The man was so firm that Vane had to give way and descend, forgetting all about the piece of leather he wanted, and parting from the sexton at the door as the key was turned, and then walking back home, to go at once to his workshop and sit down to think.There was plenty for him to do—any number of mechanical contrivances to go on with, notably the one intended to move a boat without oars, sails, or steam, but they were not church clocks, and for the time being nothing interested him but the old clock whose hands were pointing absurdly as to the correct time.All at once a thought struck Vane, and he jumped up, thrust a pair of pliers, a little screw-wrench and a pair of pincers into his pockets and went out again.

The plan of the town of Mavis Greythorpe was very simple, being one long street with houses on either side, placed just as the builders pleased. Churchwarden Rounds’ long thatched place stood many yards back, which was convenient, for he liked to grow roses that his neighbours could see and admire. Crumps the cowkeeper’s, too, stood some distance back, but that was handy, for there was room for the cowshed and the dairy close to the path. Dredge, the butcher, had his open shop, too—a separate building from the house at the back—close to the path, where customers could see the mortal remains of one sheep a week, sometimes two, and in the cold weather a pig, and a half or third of a “beast,” otherwise a small bullock, the other portions being retained by neighbouring butchers at towns miles away, where the animal had been slain. But at fair time and Christmas, Butcher, or, as he pronounced it, Buttcher Dredge, to use his own words, “killed hissen” and a whole bullock was on exhibition in his open shop.

The houses named give a fair idea of the way in which architecture was arranged for in Mavis; every man who raised a house planted it where it seemed good in his own eyes; and as in most cases wayfarers stepped down out of the main street into the front rooms, the popular way of building seemed to have been that the builder dug a hole and then put a house in it.

Among those houses which were flush with the main street was that of Michael Chakes, clerk and sexton, who was also the principal shoemaker of Mavis, and his place of business was a low, open-windowed room with bench and seat, where, when not officially engaged, he sat at work, surrounded by the implements and products of his trade, every now and then opening his mouth and making a noise after repeating a couple of lines, under the impression that he was singing. Upon that point opinions differed.

Vane Lee wanted a piece of leather, and as there was nothing at home that he could cut up, saving one of the doctor’s Wellington boots, which were nearly new, he put on his cap, thrust his hands in his pockets, and set off for the town street, as eagerly as if his success in life depended upon his obtaining that piece of leather instanter.

The place was perfectly empty as he reached the south end, the shops looked nearly the same, save that at Grader the baker’s there were four covered glasses, containing some tasteless looking biscuits full of holes; a great many flies, hungry and eager to get out, walking in all directions over the panes; and on the lowest shelf Grader’s big tom-cat, enjoying a good sleep in the sun.

Vane did not want any of those biscuits, but just then he caught sight of Distin crossing the churchyard, and to avoid him he popped in at the baker’s, to be saluted by a buzz from the flies, and a slow movement on the part of the cat who rose, raised his back into a high arch, yawned and stretched, and then walked on to the counter, and rubbed his head against Vane’s buttons, as the latter thrust his hands into his pocket for a coin, and tapped on the counter loudly once, then twice, then the third time, but there was no response, for the simple reason that Mrs Grader had gone to talk to a neighbour, and John Grader, having risen at three to bake his bread, and having delivered it after breakfast, was taking a nap.

“Oh, what a sleepy lot they are here!” muttered Vane,as he went to the door which, as there was no sign of Distin now, and he did not want any biscuits, he passed, and hurried along the street to where Michael Chakes sat in his open window, tapping away slowly at the heavy sole of a big boot which he was ornamenting with rows of hob-nails.

Vane stepped in at once, and the sexton looked up, nodded, and went on nailing again.

“Oughtn’t to put the nails so close, Mike.”

“Nay, that’s the way to put in nails, Mester Vane!” said the sexton.

“But if they were open they’d keep a man from slipping in wet and frost.”

“Don’t want to keep man from slipping, want to make ’em weer.”

“Oh, all right; have it your own way. Here, I want a nice strong new bit of leather, about six inches long.”

“What for?”

“Never you mind what for, get up and sell me a bit.”

“Nay, I can’t leave my work to get no leather to-day, Mester. Soon as I’ve putt in these here four nails, I’m gooing over to belfry.”

“What for? Some one dead?”

“Nay, not they. Folk weant die a bit now, Mester Vane. I dunno whether it’s Parson Syme’s sarmints or what, but seems to me as if they think it’s whole dooty a man to live to hundred and then not die.”

“Nonsense, cut me my bit of leather, and let me go.”

“Nay, sir, I can’t stop to coot no leather to-day. I tellee I’m gooin’ to church.”

“But what for?”

“Clock’s stopped.”

“Eh! Has it?” cried Vane eagerly. “What’s the matter with it?”

“I d’know sir. Somethin’ wrong in its inside, I spect. I’m gooing to see.”

“Forgotten to wind it up, Mike.”

“Nay, that I arn’t, sir. Wound her up tight enew.”

“Then that’s it. Wound up too tight, perhaps.”

“Nay, she’s been wound up just the same as I’ve wound her these five-and-twenty year, just as father used to. She’s wrong inside.”

“Goes stiff. Wants a little oil. Bring some in a bottle with a feather and I’ll soon put it right.”

The sexton pointed with his hammer to the chimney-piece where a small phial bottle was standing, and Vane took it up at once, and began turning a white fowl’s feather round to stir up the oil.

“You mean to come, then?” said the sexton.

“Of course. I’m fond of machinery,” cried Vane.

“Ay, you be,” said the sexton, tapping away at the nails, “and you’d like to tak’ that owd clock all to pieces, I know.”

“I should,” cried Vane with his eyes sparkling. “Shall I?”

“What?” cried the sexton, with his hammer raised. “Why, you’d never get it put together again.”

“Tchah! that I could. I would somehow,” added the lad. “Ay somehow; but what’s the good o’ that! Suppose she wouldn’t goo when you’d putt her together somehow. What then?”

“Why, she won’t go now,” cried Vane, “so what harm would it do?”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said the sexton, driving in the last nail, and pausing to admire the iron-decorated sole.

“Now, then, cut my piece of leather,” cried Vane.

“Nay, I can’t stop to coot no pieces o’ leather,” said the sexton. “Church clock’s more consekens than all the bits o’ leather in a tanner’s yard. I’m gooing over yonder now.”

“Oh, very well,” said Vane, as the man rose, untied his leathern apron, and put on a very ancient coat, “it will do when we come back.”

“Mean to go wi’ me, then?”

“Of course I do.”

The sexton chuckled, took his hat from behind the door, and stepped out on to the cobble-stone pathway, after taking the oil bottle and a bunch of big keys from a nail.

The street looked as deserted as if the place were uninhabited, and not a soul was passed as they went up to the church gate at the west end of the ancient edifice, which had stood with its great square stone fortified tower, dominating from a knoll the tiny town for five hundred years—ever since the days when it was built to act as a stronghold to which the Mavis Greythorpites could flee if assaulted by enemies, and shoot arrows from the narrow windows and hurl stones from the battlements. Or, if these were not sufficient, and the enemy proved to be very enterprising indeed, so much so as to try and batter in the hugely-thick iron-studded belfry-door, why there were those pleasant openings called by architects machicolations, just over the entrance, from which ladlesful of newly molten lead could be scattered upon their heads.

Michael Chakes knew the bunch of keys by heart, but he always went through the same ceremony—that of examining them all four, and blowing in the tubes, as if they were panpipes, keeping the one he wanted to the last.

“Oh, do make haste, Mike,” cried the boy. “You are so slow.”

“Slow and sewer’s my motter, Mester Vane,” grunted the sexton, as he slowly inserted the key. “Don’t you hurry no man’s beast; you may hev an ass of your own some day.”

“If I do I’ll make him go faster than you do. I say, though, Mike, do you think it’s true about those old bits of leather?”

As he spoke, Vane pointed to a couple of scraps of black-looking, curl-edged hide, fastened with broad headed nails to the belfry-door.

“True!” cried the sexton, turning his grim, lined, and not over-clean face to gaze in the frank-looking handsome countenance beside him. “True! Think o’ that now, and you going up to rectory every day, to do your larning along with the other young gents, to Mester Syme. Well, that beats all.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” cried Vane, as the sexton ceased from turning the key in the door, and laid one hand on the scraps of hide.

“Got to do wi’ it, lad? Well I am! And to call them leather.”

“Well, so they are leather,” said Vane. “And do you mean to say, standing theer with the turn-stones all around you as you think anything bout t’owd church arn’t true?”

“No, but I don’t think it’s true about those bits of leather.”

“Leather, indeed!” cried the sexton. “I’m surprised at you, Mester Vane—that I am. Them arn’t leather but all that’s left o’ the skins o’ the Swedums and Danes as they took off ’em and nailed up on church door to keep off the rest o’ the robbin’, murderin’ and firin’ wretches as come up river in their ships and then walked the rest o’ the way across the mash?”

“Oh, but it might be a bit of horse skin.”

“Nay, nay, don’t you go backslidin’ and thinking such a thing as that, mester. Why, theer was a party o’ larned gentlemen come one day all t’way fro’ Lincoln, and looked at it through little tallerscope things, and me standing close by all the time to see as they didn’t steal nowt, for them sort’s terruble folk for knocking bits off wi’ hammers as they carries in their pockets and spreadin’ bits o’ calico over t’ brasses, and rubbin’ ’em wi’ heel balls same as I uses for edges of soles; and first one and then another of ’em says—‘Human.’ That’s what they says. Ay, lad, that’s true enough, and been here to this day.”

“Ah, well, open the door, Mike, and let’s go in. I don’t believe people would have been such wretches as to skin a man, even if he was a Dane, and then nail the skin up there. But if they did, it wouldn’t have lasted.”

The sexton shook his head very solemnly and turned the great key, the rusty lock-bolt shooting back reluctantly, and the door turning slowly on its hinges, which gave forth a dismal creak.

“Here, let’s give them a drop of oil,” cried Vane; but the sexton held the bottle behind him.

“Nay, nay,” he said; “they’re all right enew. Let ’em be, lad.”

“How silent it seems without the old clock ticking,” said Vane, looking up at the groined roof where, in place of bosses to ornament the handsome old ceiling of the belfry, there were circular holes intended to pour more lead and arrows upon besiegers, in case they made their way through the door, farther progress being through a narrow lancet archway and up an extremely small stone spiral staircase toward which Vane stepped, but the sexton checked him.

“Nay, Mester, I go first,” he said.

“Look sharp then.”

But the only thing sharp about the sexton were his awls and cutting knives, and he took an unconscionably long time to ascend to the floor above them where an opening in the staircase admitted them to a square chamber, lighted by four narrow lancet windows, and into which hung down from the ceiling, and through as many holes, eight ropes, portions of which were covered with worsted to soften them to the ringers’ hands.

Vane made a rush for the rope of the tenor bell, but the sexton uttered a cry of horror.

“Nay, nay, lad,” he said, as soon as he got his breath, “don’t pull: ’twould make ’em think there’s a fire.”

“Oh, all right,” said Vane, leaving the rope.

“Nay, promise as you weant touch ’em, or I weant go no further.”

“I promise,” cried Vane merrily. “Now, then, up you go to the clock.”

The sexton looked relieved, and went to a broad cupboard at one side of the chamber, opened it, and there before them was the great pendulum of the old clock hanging straight down, and upon its being started swinging, it did so, but with no answeringtic-tac.

“Where are the weights, Mike?” cried Vane, thrusting in his head, and looking up. “Oh, I see them.”

“Ay, you can see ’em, lad, wound right up. There, let’s go and see.”

The sexton led the way up to the next floor, but here they were stopped by a door, which was slowly opened after he had played his tune upon the key pipes.

“Oh I say, Mike, what a horrible old bore you are,” cried the boy, impatiently.

“Then thou shouldstna hev coom, lad,” said the sexton as they stood now in a chamber through which the bell ropes passed and away up through eight more holes in the next ceiling, while right in the middle stood the skeleton works of the great clock, with all its wheels and escapements open to the boy’s eager gaze, as he noted everything, from the portion which went out horizontally through the wall to turn the hands on the clock’s face, to the part where the pendulum hung, and on either side the two great weights which set the machine in motion, and ruled the striking of the hours.

The clock was screwed down to a frame-work of oaken beams, and looked, in spite of its great age and accumulation of dust, in the best of condition, and, to the sexton’s horror, Vane forgot all about the eight big bells overhead, and the roof of the tower, from which there was a magnificent view over the wolds, and stripped off his jacket.

“What are you going to do, lad?” cried the sexton.

“See what’s the matter. Why the clock won’t go.”

“Nay, nay, thou must na touch it, lad. Why, it’s more than my plaace is worth to let anny one else touch that theer clock.”

“Oh, nonsense! Here, give me the oil.”

Vane snatched the bottle, and while the sexton looked on, trembling at the sacrilege, as it seemed to him, the lad busily oiled every bearing that he could reach, and used the oil so liberally that at last there was not a drop left, and he ceased his task with a sigh.

“There, Mike, she’ll go now,” he cried. “Can’t say I’ve done any harm.”

“Nay, I wean’t say that you hev, mester, for I’ve been standing ready to stop you if you did.”

Vane laughed.

“Now, then, start the pendulum,” he said; “and then put the hands right.”

He went to the side to start the swinging regulator himself but the sexton again stopped him.

“Nay,” he said; “that’s my job, lad;” and very slowly and cautiously he set the bob in motion.

“There, I told you so,” cried Vane; “only wanted a drop of oil.”

For the pendulum swungtic—tac—tic—tacwith beautiful regularity. Then, as they listened it wenttic—tic. Thentictwo or three times over, and there was no more sound.

“Didn’t start it hard enough, Mike,” cried Vane; and this time, to the sexton’s horror, he gave the pendulum a good swing, the regulartic—tacfollowed, grew feeble, stopped, and there was an outburst as if of uncanny laughter from overhead, so real that it was hard to think that it was only a flock of jackdaws just settled on the battlements of the tower.

“Oh, come, I’m not going to be beaten like this,” cried Vane, “I know I can put the old clock right.”

“Nay, nay, not you,” said the sexton firmly.

“But I took our kitchen clock to pieces, and put it together again; and now it goes splendidly—only it doesn’t strike right.”

“Mebbe,” said the sexton, “but this arn’t a kitchen clock. Nay, Master Vane, the man ’ll hev to come fro Lincun to doctor she.”

“But let me just—”

“Nay, nay, you don’t touch her again.”

The man was so firm that Vane had to give way and descend, forgetting all about the piece of leather he wanted, and parting from the sexton at the door as the key was turned, and then walking back home, to go at once to his workshop and sit down to think.

There was plenty for him to do—any number of mechanical contrivances to go on with, notably the one intended to move a boat without oars, sails, or steam, but they were not church clocks, and for the time being nothing interested him but the old clock whose hands were pointing absurdly as to the correct time.

All at once a thought struck Vane, and he jumped up, thrust a pair of pliers, a little screw-wrench and a pair of pincers into his pockets and went out again.

Chapter Twelve.Those Two Wheels.As Vane walked along the road the tools in his pocket rattled, and they set him thinking about Mr Deering, and how serious he had made his uncle look for a few days. Then about all their visitor had said about flying, and that set him wondering whether it would be possible to contrive something which might easily be tested.“I could go up on to the leads of the tower, step off and float down into the churchyard.”Vane suddenly burst out laughing.“Why, if I had said that yonder,” he thought, “old Macey would tell me that it would be just in the right place, for I should be sure to break my neck.”Then he began thinking about Bruff the gardener, for he passed his cottage; and about his coming to work the next day after being ill, and never saying another word about the chanterelles.Directly after his thoughts turned in another direction, for he came upon the two gipsy lads, seated under the hedge, with their legs in the ditch, proof positive that the people of their tribe were somewhere not very far away.The lads stared at him very hard, and Vane stared back at them, thinking what a curious life it seemed—for two big strong boys to be always hanging about, doing nothing but drive a few miserable worn-out horses from fair to fair.Just as he was abreast of the lads, one whispered something to the other, but what it was Vane could not understand, for it sounded mere gibberish.Then the other replied, without moving his head, and Vane passed on.“I don’t believe it’s a regular language they talk,” he said to himself. “Only a lot of slang words they’ve made up. What do they call it? Rum—Rum—Romany, that is it. Well, it doesn’t sound Roman-like to me.”About a hundred yards on he looked back, to see that the two gipsy lads were in eager converse, and one was gesticulating so fiercely, that it looked like quarrelling.But Vane had something else to think about, and he went on, holding the tools inside his pockets, to keep them from clicking together as he turned up toward the rectory, just catching sight of the gipsy lads again, now out in the road and slouching along toward the town.“Wonder whether Mr Symes is at home again,” thought Vane, but he did not expect that he would be, as it was his hour for being from the rectory, perhaps having a drive, so that he felt pretty easy about him. But he kept a sharp look-out for Gilmore and the others.“Hardly likely for them to be in,” he thought; and then he felt annoyed with himself because his visit seemed furtive and deceptive.As a rule, he walked up to the front of the house, feeling quite at home, and as if he were one of its inmates, whereas now there was the feeling upon him that he had no business to go upon his present mission, and that the first person he met would ask him what right he had to come sneaking up there with tools in his pockets.For a moment he thought he would go back, but he mastered that, and went on, only to hesitate once more, feeling sure that he had heard faintly the rector’s peculiar clearing of his voice—“Hah-errum!”His active brain immediately raised up the portly figure of his tutor before him, raising his eyebrows, and questioning him about why he was there; but these thoughts were chased away directly after, as he came to an opening in the trees, through which he could look right away to where the river went winding along through the meadows, edged with pollard willows, and there, quite half-a-mile away, he could see a solitary figure standing close to the stream.“That’s old Macey,” muttered Vane, “fishing for perch in his favourite hole.”Feeling pretty certain that the others would not be far away, he stood peering about till he caught sight of another figure away to his right.“Gilmore surely,” he muttered; and then his eyes wandered again till they lighted upon a figure seated at the foot of a tree close by the one he had settled to be Gilmore.“Old Distie,” said Vane, with a laugh. “What an idle fellow he is. Never happy unless he is sitting or lying down somewhere. I suppose it’s from coming out of a hot country, where people do lie about a great deal.”“That’s all right,” he thought, “they will not bother me, and I needn’t mind, for it’s pretty good proof that the rector is out.”Feeling fresh confidence at this, but, at the same time, horribly annoyed with himself because of the shrinking feeling which troubled him, he went straight up the path to the porch and rang.Joseph, the rector’s footman, came hurrying into the hall, pulling down the sides of his coat, and looked surprised and injured on seeing that it was only one of “Master’s pupils.”“I only wanted the keys of the church, Joe,” said Vane, carelessly.“There they hang, sir,” replied the man, pointing to a niche in the porch.“Yes, I know, but I didn’t like to take them without speaking,” said Vane; and the next minute he was on his way to the churchyard through the rectory garden, hugging the duplicate keys in his pocket, and satisfied that he could reach the belfry-door without being seen by the sexton.It was easy enough to get there unseen. Whether he could open the door unheard was another thing.There was no examining each key in turn, and no whistling in the pipes, but the right one chosen at once and thrust in.“Tah!” came from overhead loudly; and Vane started back, when quite a chorus arose, and the flock of jackdaws flew away, as if rejoicing at mocking one who was bent upon a clandestine visit to the church.“How stupid!” muttered Vane; but he gave a sharp glance round to see if he were observed before turning the key, and throwing open the door.“Why didn’t he let me oil it?” he muttered, for the noise seemed to be twice as loud now, and after dragging out the key the noise was louder still, he thought, as he thrust to the door, and locked it on the inside.Then, as he withdrew the key again, he hesitated and stood listening.Everything look strange and dim, and he felt half disposed to draw back, but laughing to himself at his want of firmness, he ran up the winding stairs again, as fast as the worn stones would let him, passed the ringers’ chamber, and went on up to the locked door, which creaked dismally, as he threw it open. The next moment he was by the clock.But he did not pause here. Drawing back into the winding staircase he ascended to where the bells hung, and had a good look at the one with the hammer by it—that on which the clock struck the hours—noted how green it was with verdigris, and then hurried down to the clock-chamber, took out his tools, pulled off his jacket and set to work.For there was this peculiarity about the doctor’s nephew—that he gave the whole of his mind and energies to any mechanical task which took his fancy, and, consequently, there was neither mind nor energy left to bestow upon collateral circumstances.Another boy would have had a thought for the consequences of what he was attempting—whether it was right for him to meddle, whether the rector would approve. Vane had not even the vestige of a thought on such matters. He could only see wheels and pinions taken out after the removal of certain screws, cleaned, oiled, put back, and the old clock pointing correctly to the time of day and, striking decently and in order, as a church clock should.Pincers, pliers and screw-driver were laid on the floor and the screw-wrench was applied here and there, after which a cloth or rag was required to wipe the different wheels, and pivots; but unfortunately nothing of the kind was at hand, so a clean pocket-handkerchief was utilised, not to its advantage—and the work went on.Vane’s face was a study as he used his penknife to scrape and pare off hardened oil, which clogged the various bearings; and as some pieces of the clock, iron or brass, was restored to its proper condition of brightness, the lad smiled and looked triumphant.Time went on, though that clock stood still, and all at once, as he set down a wheel and began wishing that he had some one to help him remove the weights, it suddenly dawned upon him that it was getting towards sunset, that he had forgotten all about his dinner, and that if he wanted any tea, he must rapidly replace the wheels he had taken out, and screw the frame-work back which he had removed.He had been working at the striking part of the clock, and he set to at once building up again, shaking his head the while at the parts he had not cleaned, having been unable to remove them on account of the line coiled round a drum and attached to a striking weight.“A clockmaker would have had that weight off first thing, I suppose,” he said to himself, as he toiled away. “I’ll get Aleck to come and help me to-morrow and do it properly, while I’m about it.”“It’s easy enough,” he said half-aloud at the end of an hour. “I believe I could make a clock in time if I tried. There you are,” he muttered as he turned the final screw that he had removed. “Hullo, what a mess I’m in!”He looked at his black and oily hands, and began thinking of soap and soda with hot-water as he rose from his knees after gathering up his tools, and then he stopped staring before him at a ledge beneath the back of the clock face.“Why, I forgot them,” he said, taking from where they lay a couple of small cogged wheels which he had cleaned very carefully, and put on one side early in his task.“Where do they belong to?” he muttered, as he looked from them to the clock and back again.There seemed to be nothing missing: every part fitted together, but it was plain enough that these two wheels had been left out, and that to find out where they belonged and put them back meant a serious task gone over again.“Well, you two will have to wait,” said the boy at last. “It doesn’t so much matter as I’m going to take the clock to pieces again, but all the same, I don’t like missing them.”He hesitated for a few moments, as to what he should do with the wheels, and ended by reaching in and laying them just beneath the works on one of the squared pieces of oak to which the clock was screwed.Ten minutes later he was at the rectory porch, where he hung up the keys just inside the hall, and then trotted home with his hands in his pockets to hide their colour.He was obliged to show them in the kitchen though, where he went to beg a jug of hot-water and some soda.“Why, where have you been, sir?” cried Martha; “and the dinner kept waiting a whole hour, and orders from your aunt to broil chicken for your tea, as if there wasn’t enough to do, and some soda? I haven’t got any.”“But you’ve got some, cookie,” said Vane.“Not a bit, if you speak to me in that disrespectful way, sir. My name’s Martha, if you please. Well, there’s a bit, but how a young gentleman can go on as you do making his hands like a sweep’s I don’t know, and if I was your aunt I’d—”Vane did not hear what, for he had hurried away with the hot-water and soda, the odour of the kitchen having had a maddening effect upon him, and set him thinking ravenously of the dinner he had missed and the grilled chicken to come.But there was no reproof for him when, clean and decent once more, he sought the dining-room. Aunt Hannah shook her head, but smiled as she made the tea, and kissed him as he went to her side.“Why, Vane, my dear, you must be starving,” she whispered. But his uncle was deep in thought over some horticultural problem and did not seem to have missed him. He roused up, though, over the evening meal, while Vane was trying to hide his nails, which in spite of all his efforts looked exceedingly black and like a smith’s.It was the appetising odour of the grilled chicken that roused the doctor most, for after sipping his tea and partaking of one piece of toast he gave a very loud sniff and began to look round the table.Vane’s plate and the dish before him at once took his attention.“Meat tea?” he said smiling pleasantly. “Dear me! and I was under the impression that we had had dinner just as usual. Come, Vane, my boy, don’t be greedy. Remember your aunt; and I’ll take a little of that. It smells very good.”“But, my dear, you had your dinner, and Vane was not there,” cried Aunt Hannah.“Oh! bless my heart, yes,” said the doctor. “Really I had quite forgotten all about it.”“Hold your plate, uncle,” cried Vane.“Oh, no, thank you, my boy. It was all a mistake, I was thinking about the greenhouse, my dear, you know that the old flue is worn-out, and really something must be done to heat it.”“Oh, never mind that,” said Aunt Hannah, but Vane pricked up his ears.“But I must mind it, my dear,” said the doctor. “It does not matter now, but the cold weather will come, and it would be a pity to have the choice plants destroyed.”“I think it is not worth the trouble,” said Aunt Hannah. “See how tiresome it is for someone to be obliged to come to see to that fire late on cold winter nights.”“There can be no pleasure enjoyed, my dear, without some trouble,” said the doctor. “It is tiresome, I know, all that stoking and poking when the glass is below freezing point, and once more, I say I wish there could be some contrivance for heating the greenhouse without farther trouble.”Vane pricked up his ears again, and for a few moments his uncle’s words seemed about to take root; but those wheels rolled into his mind directly after, and he was wondering where they could belong to, and how it was that he had not missed them when he put the others back.Then the grilled chicken interfered with his power of thinking, and the greenhouse quite passed away.The evenings at the Little Manor House were very quiet, as a rule. The doctor sat and thought, or read medical or horticultural papers; Aunt Hannah sat and knitted or embroidered and kept looking up to nod at Vane in an encouraging way as he was busy over his classics or mathematics, getting ready for reading with the rector next day; and the big cat blinked at the fire from the hearthrug.But, on this particular night, Vane hurried through the paper he had to prepare for the next day, and fetched out of the book-cases two or three works which gave a little information on horology, and he was soon deep in toothed-wheels, crown-wheels, pinions, ratchets, pallets, escapements, free, detached, anchor, and half-dead. Then he read on about racks, and snails; weights, pendulums, bobs, and compensations.Reading all this was not only interesting, but gave the idea that taking a clock to pieces and putting it together again was remarkably easy; but there was no explanation about those missing wheels.Bedtime at last, and Vane had another scrub with the nail-brush at his hands before lying down.It was a lovely night, nearly full-moon, and the room looked so light after the candle was out that Vane gave it the credit of keeping him awake. For, try how he would, he could not get to sleep. Now he was on his right side, but the pillow grew hot and had to be turned; now on his left, with the pillow turned back. Too many clothes, and the counterpane stripped back. Not enough: his uncle always said that warmth was conducive to sleep, and the counterpane pulled up. But no sleep.“Oh, how wakeful I do feel!” muttered the boy impatiently, as he tossed from side to side. “Is it the chicken?”No; it was not the chicken, but the church clock, and those two wheels, which kept on going round and round in his mind without cessation. He tried to think of something else: his studies, Greek, Latin, the mathematical problems upon which he was engaged; but, no: ratchets and pinions, toothed-wheels, free and detached, pendulums and weights, had it all their own way, and at last he jumped out of bed, opened the window and stood there, looking out, and cooling his heated, weary head for a time.“Now I can sleep,” he said to himself, triumphantly, as he returned to his bed; but he was wrong, and a quarter of an hour after he was at the washstand, pouring himself out a glass of water, which he drank.That did have some effect, for at last he dropped off into a fitful unrefreshing sleep, to be mentally borne at once into the chamber of the big stone tower, with the clockwork tumbled about in heaps all round him; and he vainly trying to catch the toothed-wheels, which kept running round and round, while the clock began to strike.Vane started up in bed, for the dream seemed real—the clock was striking.No: that was not a clock striking, but one of the bells, tolling rapidly in the middle of the night.For a moment the lad thought he was asleep, but the next he had sprung out of bed and run to the window to thrust out his head and listen.It was unmistakable: the big bell was going as he had never heard it before—not being rung, but as if someone had hold of the clapper and were beating it against the side—Dang, dang, dang, dang—stroke following stroke rapidly; and, half-confused by the sleep from which he had been awakened, Vane was trying to make out what it meant, when faintly, but plainly heard on the still night air, came that most startling of cries—“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

As Vane walked along the road the tools in his pocket rattled, and they set him thinking about Mr Deering, and how serious he had made his uncle look for a few days. Then about all their visitor had said about flying, and that set him wondering whether it would be possible to contrive something which might easily be tested.

“I could go up on to the leads of the tower, step off and float down into the churchyard.”

Vane suddenly burst out laughing.

“Why, if I had said that yonder,” he thought, “old Macey would tell me that it would be just in the right place, for I should be sure to break my neck.”

Then he began thinking about Bruff the gardener, for he passed his cottage; and about his coming to work the next day after being ill, and never saying another word about the chanterelles.

Directly after his thoughts turned in another direction, for he came upon the two gipsy lads, seated under the hedge, with their legs in the ditch, proof positive that the people of their tribe were somewhere not very far away.

The lads stared at him very hard, and Vane stared back at them, thinking what a curious life it seemed—for two big strong boys to be always hanging about, doing nothing but drive a few miserable worn-out horses from fair to fair.

Just as he was abreast of the lads, one whispered something to the other, but what it was Vane could not understand, for it sounded mere gibberish.

Then the other replied, without moving his head, and Vane passed on.

“I don’t believe it’s a regular language they talk,” he said to himself. “Only a lot of slang words they’ve made up. What do they call it? Rum—Rum—Romany, that is it. Well, it doesn’t sound Roman-like to me.”

About a hundred yards on he looked back, to see that the two gipsy lads were in eager converse, and one was gesticulating so fiercely, that it looked like quarrelling.

But Vane had something else to think about, and he went on, holding the tools inside his pockets, to keep them from clicking together as he turned up toward the rectory, just catching sight of the gipsy lads again, now out in the road and slouching along toward the town.

“Wonder whether Mr Symes is at home again,” thought Vane, but he did not expect that he would be, as it was his hour for being from the rectory, perhaps having a drive, so that he felt pretty easy about him. But he kept a sharp look-out for Gilmore and the others.

“Hardly likely for them to be in,” he thought; and then he felt annoyed with himself because his visit seemed furtive and deceptive.

As a rule, he walked up to the front of the house, feeling quite at home, and as if he were one of its inmates, whereas now there was the feeling upon him that he had no business to go upon his present mission, and that the first person he met would ask him what right he had to come sneaking up there with tools in his pockets.

For a moment he thought he would go back, but he mastered that, and went on, only to hesitate once more, feeling sure that he had heard faintly the rector’s peculiar clearing of his voice—“Hah-errum!”

His active brain immediately raised up the portly figure of his tutor before him, raising his eyebrows, and questioning him about why he was there; but these thoughts were chased away directly after, as he came to an opening in the trees, through which he could look right away to where the river went winding along through the meadows, edged with pollard willows, and there, quite half-a-mile away, he could see a solitary figure standing close to the stream.

“That’s old Macey,” muttered Vane, “fishing for perch in his favourite hole.”

Feeling pretty certain that the others would not be far away, he stood peering about till he caught sight of another figure away to his right.

“Gilmore surely,” he muttered; and then his eyes wandered again till they lighted upon a figure seated at the foot of a tree close by the one he had settled to be Gilmore.

“Old Distie,” said Vane, with a laugh. “What an idle fellow he is. Never happy unless he is sitting or lying down somewhere. I suppose it’s from coming out of a hot country, where people do lie about a great deal.”

“That’s all right,” he thought, “they will not bother me, and I needn’t mind, for it’s pretty good proof that the rector is out.”

Feeling fresh confidence at this, but, at the same time, horribly annoyed with himself because of the shrinking feeling which troubled him, he went straight up the path to the porch and rang.

Joseph, the rector’s footman, came hurrying into the hall, pulling down the sides of his coat, and looked surprised and injured on seeing that it was only one of “Master’s pupils.”

“I only wanted the keys of the church, Joe,” said Vane, carelessly.

“There they hang, sir,” replied the man, pointing to a niche in the porch.

“Yes, I know, but I didn’t like to take them without speaking,” said Vane; and the next minute he was on his way to the churchyard through the rectory garden, hugging the duplicate keys in his pocket, and satisfied that he could reach the belfry-door without being seen by the sexton.

It was easy enough to get there unseen. Whether he could open the door unheard was another thing.

There was no examining each key in turn, and no whistling in the pipes, but the right one chosen at once and thrust in.

“Tah!” came from overhead loudly; and Vane started back, when quite a chorus arose, and the flock of jackdaws flew away, as if rejoicing at mocking one who was bent upon a clandestine visit to the church.

“How stupid!” muttered Vane; but he gave a sharp glance round to see if he were observed before turning the key, and throwing open the door.

“Why didn’t he let me oil it?” he muttered, for the noise seemed to be twice as loud now, and after dragging out the key the noise was louder still, he thought, as he thrust to the door, and locked it on the inside.

Then, as he withdrew the key again, he hesitated and stood listening.

Everything look strange and dim, and he felt half disposed to draw back, but laughing to himself at his want of firmness, he ran up the winding stairs again, as fast as the worn stones would let him, passed the ringers’ chamber, and went on up to the locked door, which creaked dismally, as he threw it open. The next moment he was by the clock.

But he did not pause here. Drawing back into the winding staircase he ascended to where the bells hung, and had a good look at the one with the hammer by it—that on which the clock struck the hours—noted how green it was with verdigris, and then hurried down to the clock-chamber, took out his tools, pulled off his jacket and set to work.

For there was this peculiarity about the doctor’s nephew—that he gave the whole of his mind and energies to any mechanical task which took his fancy, and, consequently, there was neither mind nor energy left to bestow upon collateral circumstances.

Another boy would have had a thought for the consequences of what he was attempting—whether it was right for him to meddle, whether the rector would approve. Vane had not even the vestige of a thought on such matters. He could only see wheels and pinions taken out after the removal of certain screws, cleaned, oiled, put back, and the old clock pointing correctly to the time of day and, striking decently and in order, as a church clock should.

Pincers, pliers and screw-driver were laid on the floor and the screw-wrench was applied here and there, after which a cloth or rag was required to wipe the different wheels, and pivots; but unfortunately nothing of the kind was at hand, so a clean pocket-handkerchief was utilised, not to its advantage—and the work went on.

Vane’s face was a study as he used his penknife to scrape and pare off hardened oil, which clogged the various bearings; and as some pieces of the clock, iron or brass, was restored to its proper condition of brightness, the lad smiled and looked triumphant.

Time went on, though that clock stood still, and all at once, as he set down a wheel and began wishing that he had some one to help him remove the weights, it suddenly dawned upon him that it was getting towards sunset, that he had forgotten all about his dinner, and that if he wanted any tea, he must rapidly replace the wheels he had taken out, and screw the frame-work back which he had removed.

He had been working at the striking part of the clock, and he set to at once building up again, shaking his head the while at the parts he had not cleaned, having been unable to remove them on account of the line coiled round a drum and attached to a striking weight.

“A clockmaker would have had that weight off first thing, I suppose,” he said to himself, as he toiled away. “I’ll get Aleck to come and help me to-morrow and do it properly, while I’m about it.”

“It’s easy enough,” he said half-aloud at the end of an hour. “I believe I could make a clock in time if I tried. There you are,” he muttered as he turned the final screw that he had removed. “Hullo, what a mess I’m in!”

He looked at his black and oily hands, and began thinking of soap and soda with hot-water as he rose from his knees after gathering up his tools, and then he stopped staring before him at a ledge beneath the back of the clock face.

“Why, I forgot them,” he said, taking from where they lay a couple of small cogged wheels which he had cleaned very carefully, and put on one side early in his task.

“Where do they belong to?” he muttered, as he looked from them to the clock and back again.

There seemed to be nothing missing: every part fitted together, but it was plain enough that these two wheels had been left out, and that to find out where they belonged and put them back meant a serious task gone over again.

“Well, you two will have to wait,” said the boy at last. “It doesn’t so much matter as I’m going to take the clock to pieces again, but all the same, I don’t like missing them.”

He hesitated for a few moments, as to what he should do with the wheels, and ended by reaching in and laying them just beneath the works on one of the squared pieces of oak to which the clock was screwed.

Ten minutes later he was at the rectory porch, where he hung up the keys just inside the hall, and then trotted home with his hands in his pockets to hide their colour.

He was obliged to show them in the kitchen though, where he went to beg a jug of hot-water and some soda.

“Why, where have you been, sir?” cried Martha; “and the dinner kept waiting a whole hour, and orders from your aunt to broil chicken for your tea, as if there wasn’t enough to do, and some soda? I haven’t got any.”

“But you’ve got some, cookie,” said Vane.

“Not a bit, if you speak to me in that disrespectful way, sir. My name’s Martha, if you please. Well, there’s a bit, but how a young gentleman can go on as you do making his hands like a sweep’s I don’t know, and if I was your aunt I’d—”

Vane did not hear what, for he had hurried away with the hot-water and soda, the odour of the kitchen having had a maddening effect upon him, and set him thinking ravenously of the dinner he had missed and the grilled chicken to come.

But there was no reproof for him when, clean and decent once more, he sought the dining-room. Aunt Hannah shook her head, but smiled as she made the tea, and kissed him as he went to her side.

“Why, Vane, my dear, you must be starving,” she whispered. But his uncle was deep in thought over some horticultural problem and did not seem to have missed him. He roused up, though, over the evening meal, while Vane was trying to hide his nails, which in spite of all his efforts looked exceedingly black and like a smith’s.

It was the appetising odour of the grilled chicken that roused the doctor most, for after sipping his tea and partaking of one piece of toast he gave a very loud sniff and began to look round the table.

Vane’s plate and the dish before him at once took his attention.

“Meat tea?” he said smiling pleasantly. “Dear me! and I was under the impression that we had had dinner just as usual. Come, Vane, my boy, don’t be greedy. Remember your aunt; and I’ll take a little of that. It smells very good.”

“But, my dear, you had your dinner, and Vane was not there,” cried Aunt Hannah.

“Oh! bless my heart, yes,” said the doctor. “Really I had quite forgotten all about it.”

“Hold your plate, uncle,” cried Vane.

“Oh, no, thank you, my boy. It was all a mistake, I was thinking about the greenhouse, my dear, you know that the old flue is worn-out, and really something must be done to heat it.”

“Oh, never mind that,” said Aunt Hannah, but Vane pricked up his ears.

“But I must mind it, my dear,” said the doctor. “It does not matter now, but the cold weather will come, and it would be a pity to have the choice plants destroyed.”

“I think it is not worth the trouble,” said Aunt Hannah. “See how tiresome it is for someone to be obliged to come to see to that fire late on cold winter nights.”

“There can be no pleasure enjoyed, my dear, without some trouble,” said the doctor. “It is tiresome, I know, all that stoking and poking when the glass is below freezing point, and once more, I say I wish there could be some contrivance for heating the greenhouse without farther trouble.”

Vane pricked up his ears again, and for a few moments his uncle’s words seemed about to take root; but those wheels rolled into his mind directly after, and he was wondering where they could belong to, and how it was that he had not missed them when he put the others back.

Then the grilled chicken interfered with his power of thinking, and the greenhouse quite passed away.

The evenings at the Little Manor House were very quiet, as a rule. The doctor sat and thought, or read medical or horticultural papers; Aunt Hannah sat and knitted or embroidered and kept looking up to nod at Vane in an encouraging way as he was busy over his classics or mathematics, getting ready for reading with the rector next day; and the big cat blinked at the fire from the hearthrug.

But, on this particular night, Vane hurried through the paper he had to prepare for the next day, and fetched out of the book-cases two or three works which gave a little information on horology, and he was soon deep in toothed-wheels, crown-wheels, pinions, ratchets, pallets, escapements, free, detached, anchor, and half-dead. Then he read on about racks, and snails; weights, pendulums, bobs, and compensations.

Reading all this was not only interesting, but gave the idea that taking a clock to pieces and putting it together again was remarkably easy; but there was no explanation about those missing wheels.

Bedtime at last, and Vane had another scrub with the nail-brush at his hands before lying down.

It was a lovely night, nearly full-moon, and the room looked so light after the candle was out that Vane gave it the credit of keeping him awake. For, try how he would, he could not get to sleep. Now he was on his right side, but the pillow grew hot and had to be turned; now on his left, with the pillow turned back. Too many clothes, and the counterpane stripped back. Not enough: his uncle always said that warmth was conducive to sleep, and the counterpane pulled up. But no sleep.

“Oh, how wakeful I do feel!” muttered the boy impatiently, as he tossed from side to side. “Is it the chicken?”

No; it was not the chicken, but the church clock, and those two wheels, which kept on going round and round in his mind without cessation. He tried to think of something else: his studies, Greek, Latin, the mathematical problems upon which he was engaged; but, no: ratchets and pinions, toothed-wheels, free and detached, pendulums and weights, had it all their own way, and at last he jumped out of bed, opened the window and stood there, looking out, and cooling his heated, weary head for a time.

“Now I can sleep,” he said to himself, triumphantly, as he returned to his bed; but he was wrong, and a quarter of an hour after he was at the washstand, pouring himself out a glass of water, which he drank.

That did have some effect, for at last he dropped off into a fitful unrefreshing sleep, to be mentally borne at once into the chamber of the big stone tower, with the clockwork tumbled about in heaps all round him; and he vainly trying to catch the toothed-wheels, which kept running round and round, while the clock began to strike.

Vane started up in bed, for the dream seemed real—the clock was striking.

No: that was not a clock striking, but one of the bells, tolling rapidly in the middle of the night.

For a moment the lad thought he was asleep, but the next he had sprung out of bed and run to the window to thrust out his head and listen.

It was unmistakable: the big bell was going as he had never heard it before—not being rung, but as if someone had hold of the clapper and were beating it against the side—Dang, dang, dang, dang—stroke following stroke rapidly; and, half-confused by the sleep from which he had been awakened, Vane was trying to make out what it meant, when faintly, but plainly heard on the still night air, came that most startling of cries—

“Fire! Fire! Fire!”

Chapter Thirteen.A Disturbed Night.Just as Vane shivered at the cry, and ran to hurry on some clothes, there was the shape of the door clearly made out in lines of light, and directly after a sharp tapping.“Vane, my boy, asleep?”“No, uncle; dressing.”“You heard the bell, then. I’m afraid it means fire.”“Yes, fire, fire! I heard them calling.”“I can’t see anything, can you?”“No, uncle, but I shall be dressed directly, and will go and find out where it is?”“O hey! Master Vane!” came from the outside. “Fire!”It was the gardener’s voice, and the lad ran to the window.“Yes, I heard. Where is it?”“Don’t know yet, sir. Think it’s the rectory.”“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” came from Vane’s door. “Hi, Vane, lad, I’ll dress as quickly as I can. You run on and see if you can help. Whatever you do, try and save the rector’s books.”Vane grunted and went on dressing, finding everything wrong in the dark, and taking twice as long as usual to get into his clothes.As he dressed, he kept on going to the window to look out, but not to obtain any information, for the gardener had run back at a steady trot, his steps sounding clearly on the hard road, while the bell kept up its incessant clamour, the blows of the clapper following one another rapidly as ever, and with the greatest of regularity. But thrust his head out as far as he would, there was no glare visible, as there had been the year before when the haystack was either set on fire or ignited spontaneously from being built up too wet. Then the whole of the western sky was illumined by the flames, and patches of burning hay rose in great flakes high in air, and were swept away by the breeze.“Dressed, uncle. Going down,” cried Vane, as he walked into the passage.“Shan’t be five minutes, my boy.”“Take care, Vane, dear,” came in smothered and suggestive tones. “Don’t go too near the fire.”“All right, aunt,” shouted the boy, as he ran downstairs, and, catching up his cap, unfastened the front door, stepped out, ran down the path, darted out from the gate, and began to run toward where the alarm bell was being rung.It was no great distance, but, in spite of his speed, it seemed to be long that night; and, as Vane ran, looking eagerly the while for the glow from the fire, he came to the conclusion that the brilliancy of the moon was sufficient to render it invisible, and that perhaps the blaze was yet only small.“Hi! Who’s that?” cried a voice, whose owner was invisible in the shadow cast by a clump of trees.“I—Vane Lee. Is the rectory on fire, Distin?”“I’ve just come out of it, and didn’t see any flames,” said the youth contemptuously.“Here, hi! Distie!” came from the side-road leading to the rectory grounds. “Wait for us. Who’s that? Oh, you, Vane. What’s the matter?”“I don’t know,” replied Vane. “I jumped out of bed when I heard the alarm bell.”“So did we, and here’s Aleck got his trousers on wrong way first.”“I haven’t,” shouted Macey; “but that’s my hat you’ve got.”As he spoke, he snatched the hat Gilmore was wearing, and tossed the one he held toward his companion.“Are you fellows coming?” said Distin, coldly.“Of course we are,” cried Macey. “Come on, lads; let’s go and help them get out the town squirt.”They started for the main street at a trot, and Vane panted out:—“I’ll lay a wager that the engine’s locked up, and that they can’t find the keys.”“And when they do, the old pump won’t move,” cried Gilmore.“And the hose will be all burst,” cried Macey.“I thought we were going to help,” said Distin, coldly. “If you fellows chatter so, you’ll have no breath left.”By this time they were among the houses, nearly everyone of which showed a light at the upper window.“Here’s Bruff,” cried Vane, running up to a group of men, four of whom were carrying poles with iron hooks at the end—implements bearing a striking family resemblance to the pole drags said to be “kept in constant readiness,” by wharves, bridges, and docks.“What have you got there, gardener?” shouted Gilmore.“Hooks, sir, to tear off the burning thack.”“But where is the burning thatch?” cried Vane.“I dunno, sir,” said the gardener. “I arn’t even smelt fire yet.”“Have they got the engine out?”“No, sir. They arn’t got the keys yet. Well, did you make him hear?” continued Bruff, as half-a-dozen men came trotting down the street.“Nay, we can’t wacken him nohow.”“What, Chakes?” cried Vane.“Ay; we’ve been after the keys.”“But he must be up at the church,” said Vane. “It’s he who is ringing the bell.”“Nay, he arn’t theer,” chorused several. “We went theer first, and doors is locked.”By this time there was quite a little crowd in the street, whose components were, for the most part, asking each other where the fire was; and, to add to the confusion, several had brought their dogs, some of which barked at the incessant ringing of the big bell, while three took part in a quarrel, possibly induced by ill-temper consequent upon their having been roused from their beds.“Then he must have locked himself in,” cried Vane.“Not he,” said Distin. “Go and knock him up; he’s asleep still.”“Well,” said Bruff, with a chuckle, as he stood his hook pole on end, “owd Mike Chakes can sleep a bit, I know; but if he can do it through all this ting dang, he bets me.”“Come and see,” cried Vane, making for the church-tower.“No; come and rout him out of bed,” cried Distin.Just then a portly figure approached, and the rector’s smooth, quick voice was heard asking:—“Where is the fire, my men?”“That’s what we can’t none on us mak’ out, Parson,” said a voice. “Hey! Here’s Mester Rounds; he’s chutch-waarden; he’ll know.”“Nay, I don’t know,” cried the owner of the name; “I’ve on’y just got out o’ bed. Who’s that pullin’ the big bell at that rate?”“We think it’s saxton,” cried a voice.“Yes, of course. He has locked himself in.”“Silence!” cried the rector; and, as the buzz of voices ceased, he continued, “Has anyone noticed a fire?”“Nay, nay, nay,” came from all directions.“But at a distance—at either of the farms?”“Nay, they’re all right, parson,” said the churchwarden. “We could see if they was alight. Hi! theer! How’d hard!” he roared, with both hands to his mouth. “Don’t pull the bell down.”For the clangour continued at the same rate,—Dang, dang dang, dang.“Owd Mikey Chakes has gone mad, I think,” said a voice.“Follow me to the church,” said the rector; and, leading the way with his pupils, the rector marched the little crowd up the street, amidst a buzz of voices, many of which came from bedroom windows, now all wide-open, and with the occupants of the chambers gazing out, and shouting questions to neighbours where the fire might be.A few moments’ pause was made at the sexton’s door, but all was silent there, and no response came to repeated knocks.“He must be at the church, of course,” said the rector; and in a few minutes all were gathered at the west door, which was tried, and, as before said, found to be fastened.“Call, somebody with a loud voice.”“We did come and shout, sir, and kicked at the door.”“Call again,” said the rector. “The bell makes so much clamour the ringer cannot hear. Hah! he has stopped.”For, as he spoke, the strokes on the bell grew slower, and suddenly ceased.A shout was raised, a curious cry, composed of “Mike”—“Chakes!”—“Shunk” and other familiar appellations.“Hush, hush!” cried the rector. “One of you—Mr Rounds, will you have the goodness to summon the sexton.”“Hey! hey! Sax’on!” shouted the miller in a voice of thunder; and he supplemented his summons by kicking loudly at the door.“Excuse me, Mr Rounds,” said the rector; “the call will suffice.”“But it don’t suffice, Parson,” said the bluff churchwarden. “Hi, Chakes, man, coom down an’ open doooor!”“Straange and queer,” said the butcher. “Theer arn’t nobody, or they’d say summat.”There was another shout.“Plaace arn’t harnted, is it?” said a voice from the little crowd.“Will somebody have the goodness to go for my set of the church keys,” said the rector with dignity. “You? Thank you, Mr Macey. You know where they hang.”Macey went off at a quick pace; and, to fill up the time, the rector knocked with the top of his stick.By this time the doctor had joined the group.“It seems very strange,” he said. “The sexton must have gone up himself, nobody else had keys.”“And there appears to be nothing to cause him to raise an alarm,” said the rector. “Surely the man has not been walking in his sleep.”“Tchah!” cried the churchwarden; “not he, sir. Wean’t hardly walk a dozen steps, even when he’s awake. Why, hallo! what now?”“Here he is! Here he is!” came excitedly from the crowd, as the sexton walked deliberately up with a lantern in one hand, a bunch of keys in the other.“Mr Chakes,” said the rector sternly, “what is the meaning of this?”“Dunno, sir. I come to see,” replied the sexton. “I thowt I heerd bell tolling, and I got up and as there seems to be some’at the matter I comed.”“Then, you did not go into the belfry to ring the alarm,” cried the doctor.“Nay, I ben abed and asleep till the noise wackened me.”“It is very strange,” said the rector. “Ah, here is Mr Macey. Have the goodness to open the door; and, Mr Rounds, will you keep watch over the windows to see if any one escapes. This must be some trick.”As the door was opened the rector turned to his pupils.“Surely, young gentlemen,” he said in a whisper, “you have not been guilty of any prank.”They all indignantly disclaimed participation, and the rector led the way into the great silent tower, where he paused.“I’m afraid I must leave the search to younger men,” he said. “That winding staircase will be too much for me.”Previously all had hung back out of respect to the rector, but at this a rush was made for the belfry, the rectory pupils leading, and quite a crowd filling the chamber where the ropes hung perfectly still.“Nobody here, sir,” shouted Distin, down the staircase.“Dear me!” exclaimed the rector; who was standing at the foot, almost alone, save that he had the companionship of the doctor and that they were in close proximity to the churchwarden and the watchers outside the door.“Go up higher. Perhaps he is hiding by the clock or among the bells.”This necessitated Chakes going up first, and unlocking the clock-chamber door, while others went higher to see if any one was hidden among the bells or on the roof.“I know’d there couldn’t be no one in here,” said Chakes solemnly, as he held up his lantern, and peered about, and round the works of the clock.“How did you know?” said Distin suspiciously.“That’s how,” replied the sexton, holding up his keys. “No one couldn’t get oop here, wi’out my key or parson’s.”This was received with a solemn murmur, and after communications had been sent to and fro between the rector and Distin, up and down the spiral staircase, which made an excellent speaking-tube, the rector called to everyone to come back.He was obeyed, Chakes desiring the pupils to stay with him while he did the locking up; and as he saw a look exchanged between Macey and Gilmore, he raised his keys to his lips, and blew down the pipes.“Here, hallo!” cried Gilmore, “where’s the show and the big drum? He’s going to give us Punch and Judy.”“Nay, sir, nay, I always blows the doost out. You thought I wanted you to stay because— Nay, I arn’t scarred. On’y thought I might want someone to howd lantern.”He locked the clock-chamber door, and they descended to the belfry, where several of the people were standing, three having hold of the ropes.“Nay, nay, you mustn’t pull they,” shouted Chakes. “Bell’s been ringing ’nuff to-night. Latt ’em be.”“Why, we never looked in those big cupboards,” cried Macey suddenly, pointing to the doors behind which the weights hung, and the pendulum, when the clock was going, swung to and fro.“Nay, there’s nowt,” said the sexton, opening and throwing back the door to show the motionless ropes and pendulum.Vane had moved close up with the others, and he stood there in silence as the doors were closed again, and then they descended to join the group below, the churchwarden now coming to the broad arched door.“Well?” he cried; “caught ’em?”“There’s no one there,” came chorused back.“Then we must all hev dreamed we heard bell swing,” said the churchwarden. “Let’s all goo back to bed.”“It is very mysterious,” said the rector.“Very strange,” said the doctor. “The ringing was of so unusual a character, too.”“Owd place is harnted,” said a deep voice from the crowd, the speaker having covered his mouth with his hand, so as to disguise his voice.“Shame!” said the rector sternly. “I did not think I had a parishioner who could give utterance to such absurd sentiments.”“Then what made bell ring?” cried another voice.“I do not know yet,” said the rector, gravely; “but there must have been some good and sufficient reason.”“Perhaps one of the bells was left sticking up,” said Macey—a remark which evoked a roar of laughter.“It is nearly two o’clock, my good friends,” said the rector, quietly; “and we are doing no good discussing this little puzzle. Leave it till daylight, and let us all return home to our beds. Chakes, have the goodness to lock the door. Good-night, gentlemen. Doctor, you are coming my way; young gentlemen, please.”He marched off with the doctor, followed by his four pupils, till Distin increased his pace a little, and contrived to get so near that the doctor half turned and hesitated for Distin to come level.“Perhaps you can explain it, my young friend,” he said; and Distin joined in the conversation.Meanwhile Gilmore and Macey were talking volubly, while Vane seemed to be listening.“It’s all gammon about haunting and ghosts and goblins,” said Gilmore. “Chaps who wrote story-books invented all that kind of stuff, same as they did about knights in full armour throwing their arms round beautiful young ladies, and bounding on to their chargers and galloping off.”“Oh, come, that’s true enough,” said Macey.“What!” cried Gilmore, “do you mean to tell me that you believe a fellow dressed in an ironmonger’s shop, and with a big pot on his head, and a girl on his arm, could leap on a horse?”“Yes, if he was excited,” cried Macey.“He couldn’t do it, without the girl.”“But they did do it.”“No, they didn’t. It’s impossible. If you want the truth, read some of the proper accounts about the armour they used to wear. Why, it was so heavy that—”“Yes, it was heavy,” said Macey, musingly.“Yes, so heavy, that when they galloped at each other with big clothes-prop things, and one of ’em was knocked off his horse, and lay flat on the ground, he couldn’t get up again without his squires to help him.”“You never read that.”“Well, no, but Vane Lee did. He told me all about it. I suppose, then, you’re ready to believe that the church-tower’s haunted?”“I don’t say that,” said Macey, “but it does seem very strange.”“Oh, yes, of course it does,” said Gilmore mockingly. “Depend upon it there was a tiny chap with a cloth cap, ending in a point sitting up on the timbers among the bells with a big hammer in his hands, and he was pounding away at the bell till he saw us coming, and then off he went, hammer and all.”“I didn’t say I believed that,” said Macey; “but I do say it’s very strange.”“Well, good-night, Syme,” said the doctor, who had halted at the turning leading up to the rectory front door. “It is very curious, but I can’t help thinking that it was all a prank played by some of the town lads to annoy the sexton. Well, Vane, my boy, ready for bed once more?”Vane started out of a musing fit and said good-night to his tutor and fellow-pupils to walk back with his uncle.“I can’t puzzle it out, Vane. I can’t puzzle it out,” the doctor said, and the nephew shivered, for fear that the old gentleman should turn upon him suddenly and say, “Can you?”But no such question was asked, for the doctor began to talk about different little mysteries which he had met with in his career, all of which had had matter-of-fact explanations that came in time, and then they reached the house, to find a light in the breakfast-room, where Aunt Hannah was dressed, and had prepared some coffee for them.“Oh, I have been so anxious,” she cried. “Whose place is burned?”“No one’s,” said the doctor, cheerily; and then he related their experience.“I’m very thankful it’s no worse,” said Aunt Hannah. “Some scamps of boys must have had a string tied to the bell, I suppose.”Poor old lady, she seemed to think of the great tenor bell in the old tower as if it were something which could easily be swung by hand.They did not sit long; and, ill at ease, and asking himself whether he was going to turn into a disingenuous cowardly cur, Vane gladly sought his chamber once more to sit down on the edge of his bed, and ponder over his day’s experience.“It must have been through leaving out those two wheels,” he muttered, “that made something go off, and start the weight running down as fast as it could. I must speak about it first thing to-morrow morning, or the people will think the place is full of ghosts. Yes, I’ll tell uncle in the morning and he can do what he likes.”On coming to this resolve Vane undressed and slipped into bed once more, laid his head on the pillow, and composed himself to sleep; but no sleep came, and with his face burning he glided out of bed again, put on a few things, and then stole out of his bedroom into the passage, where he stood hesitating for a few minutes.“No,” he muttered as he drew a deep breath, “I will not be such a coward;” and, creeping along the passage, he tapped softly on the next bedroom door.“Eh? Yes. Someone ill?” cried the doctor. “Down directly.”“No, no, uncle, don’t get up,” cried Vane hoarsely. “I only wanted to tell you something.”“Tell me something? Well, what is it?”“I wanted to say that I had been trying to clean the church clock this afternoon, and I left out two of the wheels.”“What!” roared the doctor. “Hang it all, boy, I think nature must have left out two of your wheels.”

Just as Vane shivered at the cry, and ran to hurry on some clothes, there was the shape of the door clearly made out in lines of light, and directly after a sharp tapping.

“Vane, my boy, asleep?”

“No, uncle; dressing.”

“You heard the bell, then. I’m afraid it means fire.”

“Yes, fire, fire! I heard them calling.”

“I can’t see anything, can you?”

“No, uncle, but I shall be dressed directly, and will go and find out where it is?”

“O hey! Master Vane!” came from the outside. “Fire!”

It was the gardener’s voice, and the lad ran to the window.

“Yes, I heard. Where is it?”

“Don’t know yet, sir. Think it’s the rectory.”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear!” came from Vane’s door. “Hi, Vane, lad, I’ll dress as quickly as I can. You run on and see if you can help. Whatever you do, try and save the rector’s books.”

Vane grunted and went on dressing, finding everything wrong in the dark, and taking twice as long as usual to get into his clothes.

As he dressed, he kept on going to the window to look out, but not to obtain any information, for the gardener had run back at a steady trot, his steps sounding clearly on the hard road, while the bell kept up its incessant clamour, the blows of the clapper following one another rapidly as ever, and with the greatest of regularity. But thrust his head out as far as he would, there was no glare visible, as there had been the year before when the haystack was either set on fire or ignited spontaneously from being built up too wet. Then the whole of the western sky was illumined by the flames, and patches of burning hay rose in great flakes high in air, and were swept away by the breeze.

“Dressed, uncle. Going down,” cried Vane, as he walked into the passage.

“Shan’t be five minutes, my boy.”

“Take care, Vane, dear,” came in smothered and suggestive tones. “Don’t go too near the fire.”

“All right, aunt,” shouted the boy, as he ran downstairs, and, catching up his cap, unfastened the front door, stepped out, ran down the path, darted out from the gate, and began to run toward where the alarm bell was being rung.

It was no great distance, but, in spite of his speed, it seemed to be long that night; and, as Vane ran, looking eagerly the while for the glow from the fire, he came to the conclusion that the brilliancy of the moon was sufficient to render it invisible, and that perhaps the blaze was yet only small.

“Hi! Who’s that?” cried a voice, whose owner was invisible in the shadow cast by a clump of trees.

“I—Vane Lee. Is the rectory on fire, Distin?”

“I’ve just come out of it, and didn’t see any flames,” said the youth contemptuously.

“Here, hi! Distie!” came from the side-road leading to the rectory grounds. “Wait for us. Who’s that? Oh, you, Vane. What’s the matter?”

“I don’t know,” replied Vane. “I jumped out of bed when I heard the alarm bell.”

“So did we, and here’s Aleck got his trousers on wrong way first.”

“I haven’t,” shouted Macey; “but that’s my hat you’ve got.”

As he spoke, he snatched the hat Gilmore was wearing, and tossed the one he held toward his companion.

“Are you fellows coming?” said Distin, coldly.

“Of course we are,” cried Macey. “Come on, lads; let’s go and help them get out the town squirt.”

They started for the main street at a trot, and Vane panted out:—

“I’ll lay a wager that the engine’s locked up, and that they can’t find the keys.”

“And when they do, the old pump won’t move,” cried Gilmore.

“And the hose will be all burst,” cried Macey.

“I thought we were going to help,” said Distin, coldly. “If you fellows chatter so, you’ll have no breath left.”

By this time they were among the houses, nearly everyone of which showed a light at the upper window.

“Here’s Bruff,” cried Vane, running up to a group of men, four of whom were carrying poles with iron hooks at the end—implements bearing a striking family resemblance to the pole drags said to be “kept in constant readiness,” by wharves, bridges, and docks.

“What have you got there, gardener?” shouted Gilmore.

“Hooks, sir, to tear off the burning thack.”

“But where is the burning thatch?” cried Vane.

“I dunno, sir,” said the gardener. “I arn’t even smelt fire yet.”

“Have they got the engine out?”

“No, sir. They arn’t got the keys yet. Well, did you make him hear?” continued Bruff, as half-a-dozen men came trotting down the street.

“Nay, we can’t wacken him nohow.”

“What, Chakes?” cried Vane.

“Ay; we’ve been after the keys.”

“But he must be up at the church,” said Vane. “It’s he who is ringing the bell.”

“Nay, he arn’t theer,” chorused several. “We went theer first, and doors is locked.”

By this time there was quite a little crowd in the street, whose components were, for the most part, asking each other where the fire was; and, to add to the confusion, several had brought their dogs, some of which barked at the incessant ringing of the big bell, while three took part in a quarrel, possibly induced by ill-temper consequent upon their having been roused from their beds.

“Then he must have locked himself in,” cried Vane.

“Not he,” said Distin. “Go and knock him up; he’s asleep still.”

“Well,” said Bruff, with a chuckle, as he stood his hook pole on end, “owd Mike Chakes can sleep a bit, I know; but if he can do it through all this ting dang, he bets me.”

“Come and see,” cried Vane, making for the church-tower.

“No; come and rout him out of bed,” cried Distin.

Just then a portly figure approached, and the rector’s smooth, quick voice was heard asking:—

“Where is the fire, my men?”

“That’s what we can’t none on us mak’ out, Parson,” said a voice. “Hey! Here’s Mester Rounds; he’s chutch-waarden; he’ll know.”

“Nay, I don’t know,” cried the owner of the name; “I’ve on’y just got out o’ bed. Who’s that pullin’ the big bell at that rate?”

“We think it’s saxton,” cried a voice.

“Yes, of course. He has locked himself in.”

“Silence!” cried the rector; and, as the buzz of voices ceased, he continued, “Has anyone noticed a fire?”

“Nay, nay, nay,” came from all directions.

“But at a distance—at either of the farms?”

“Nay, they’re all right, parson,” said the churchwarden. “We could see if they was alight. Hi! theer! How’d hard!” he roared, with both hands to his mouth. “Don’t pull the bell down.”

For the clangour continued at the same rate,—Dang, dang dang, dang.

“Owd Mikey Chakes has gone mad, I think,” said a voice.

“Follow me to the church,” said the rector; and, leading the way with his pupils, the rector marched the little crowd up the street, amidst a buzz of voices, many of which came from bedroom windows, now all wide-open, and with the occupants of the chambers gazing out, and shouting questions to neighbours where the fire might be.

A few moments’ pause was made at the sexton’s door, but all was silent there, and no response came to repeated knocks.

“He must be at the church, of course,” said the rector; and in a few minutes all were gathered at the west door, which was tried, and, as before said, found to be fastened.

“Call, somebody with a loud voice.”

“We did come and shout, sir, and kicked at the door.”

“Call again,” said the rector. “The bell makes so much clamour the ringer cannot hear. Hah! he has stopped.”

For, as he spoke, the strokes on the bell grew slower, and suddenly ceased.

A shout was raised, a curious cry, composed of “Mike”—“Chakes!”—“Shunk” and other familiar appellations.

“Hush, hush!” cried the rector. “One of you—Mr Rounds, will you have the goodness to summon the sexton.”

“Hey! hey! Sax’on!” shouted the miller in a voice of thunder; and he supplemented his summons by kicking loudly at the door.

“Excuse me, Mr Rounds,” said the rector; “the call will suffice.”

“But it don’t suffice, Parson,” said the bluff churchwarden. “Hi, Chakes, man, coom down an’ open doooor!”

“Straange and queer,” said the butcher. “Theer arn’t nobody, or they’d say summat.”

There was another shout.

“Plaace arn’t harnted, is it?” said a voice from the little crowd.

“Will somebody have the goodness to go for my set of the church keys,” said the rector with dignity. “You? Thank you, Mr Macey. You know where they hang.”

Macey went off at a quick pace; and, to fill up the time, the rector knocked with the top of his stick.

By this time the doctor had joined the group.

“It seems very strange,” he said. “The sexton must have gone up himself, nobody else had keys.”

“And there appears to be nothing to cause him to raise an alarm,” said the rector. “Surely the man has not been walking in his sleep.”

“Tchah!” cried the churchwarden; “not he, sir. Wean’t hardly walk a dozen steps, even when he’s awake. Why, hallo! what now?”

“Here he is! Here he is!” came excitedly from the crowd, as the sexton walked deliberately up with a lantern in one hand, a bunch of keys in the other.

“Mr Chakes,” said the rector sternly, “what is the meaning of this?”

“Dunno, sir. I come to see,” replied the sexton. “I thowt I heerd bell tolling, and I got up and as there seems to be some’at the matter I comed.”

“Then, you did not go into the belfry to ring the alarm,” cried the doctor.

“Nay, I ben abed and asleep till the noise wackened me.”

“It is very strange,” said the rector. “Ah, here is Mr Macey. Have the goodness to open the door; and, Mr Rounds, will you keep watch over the windows to see if any one escapes. This must be some trick.”

As the door was opened the rector turned to his pupils.

“Surely, young gentlemen,” he said in a whisper, “you have not been guilty of any prank.”

They all indignantly disclaimed participation, and the rector led the way into the great silent tower, where he paused.

“I’m afraid I must leave the search to younger men,” he said. “That winding staircase will be too much for me.”

Previously all had hung back out of respect to the rector, but at this a rush was made for the belfry, the rectory pupils leading, and quite a crowd filling the chamber where the ropes hung perfectly still.

“Nobody here, sir,” shouted Distin, down the staircase.

“Dear me!” exclaimed the rector; who was standing at the foot, almost alone, save that he had the companionship of the doctor and that they were in close proximity to the churchwarden and the watchers outside the door.

“Go up higher. Perhaps he is hiding by the clock or among the bells.”

This necessitated Chakes going up first, and unlocking the clock-chamber door, while others went higher to see if any one was hidden among the bells or on the roof.

“I know’d there couldn’t be no one in here,” said Chakes solemnly, as he held up his lantern, and peered about, and round the works of the clock.

“How did you know?” said Distin suspiciously.

“That’s how,” replied the sexton, holding up his keys. “No one couldn’t get oop here, wi’out my key or parson’s.”

This was received with a solemn murmur, and after communications had been sent to and fro between the rector and Distin, up and down the spiral staircase, which made an excellent speaking-tube, the rector called to everyone to come back.

He was obeyed, Chakes desiring the pupils to stay with him while he did the locking up; and as he saw a look exchanged between Macey and Gilmore, he raised his keys to his lips, and blew down the pipes.

“Here, hallo!” cried Gilmore, “where’s the show and the big drum? He’s going to give us Punch and Judy.”

“Nay, sir, nay, I always blows the doost out. You thought I wanted you to stay because— Nay, I arn’t scarred. On’y thought I might want someone to howd lantern.”

He locked the clock-chamber door, and they descended to the belfry, where several of the people were standing, three having hold of the ropes.

“Nay, nay, you mustn’t pull they,” shouted Chakes. “Bell’s been ringing ’nuff to-night. Latt ’em be.”

“Why, we never looked in those big cupboards,” cried Macey suddenly, pointing to the doors behind which the weights hung, and the pendulum, when the clock was going, swung to and fro.

“Nay, there’s nowt,” said the sexton, opening and throwing back the door to show the motionless ropes and pendulum.

Vane had moved close up with the others, and he stood there in silence as the doors were closed again, and then they descended to join the group below, the churchwarden now coming to the broad arched door.

“Well?” he cried; “caught ’em?”

“There’s no one there,” came chorused back.

“Then we must all hev dreamed we heard bell swing,” said the churchwarden. “Let’s all goo back to bed.”

“It is very mysterious,” said the rector.

“Very strange,” said the doctor. “The ringing was of so unusual a character, too.”

“Owd place is harnted,” said a deep voice from the crowd, the speaker having covered his mouth with his hand, so as to disguise his voice.

“Shame!” said the rector sternly. “I did not think I had a parishioner who could give utterance to such absurd sentiments.”

“Then what made bell ring?” cried another voice.

“I do not know yet,” said the rector, gravely; “but there must have been some good and sufficient reason.”

“Perhaps one of the bells was left sticking up,” said Macey—a remark which evoked a roar of laughter.

“It is nearly two o’clock, my good friends,” said the rector, quietly; “and we are doing no good discussing this little puzzle. Leave it till daylight, and let us all return home to our beds. Chakes, have the goodness to lock the door. Good-night, gentlemen. Doctor, you are coming my way; young gentlemen, please.”

He marched off with the doctor, followed by his four pupils, till Distin increased his pace a little, and contrived to get so near that the doctor half turned and hesitated for Distin to come level.

“Perhaps you can explain it, my young friend,” he said; and Distin joined in the conversation.

Meanwhile Gilmore and Macey were talking volubly, while Vane seemed to be listening.

“It’s all gammon about haunting and ghosts and goblins,” said Gilmore. “Chaps who wrote story-books invented all that kind of stuff, same as they did about knights in full armour throwing their arms round beautiful young ladies, and bounding on to their chargers and galloping off.”

“Oh, come, that’s true enough,” said Macey.

“What!” cried Gilmore, “do you mean to tell me that you believe a fellow dressed in an ironmonger’s shop, and with a big pot on his head, and a girl on his arm, could leap on a horse?”

“Yes, if he was excited,” cried Macey.

“He couldn’t do it, without the girl.”

“But they did do it.”

“No, they didn’t. It’s impossible. If you want the truth, read some of the proper accounts about the armour they used to wear. Why, it was so heavy that—”

“Yes, it was heavy,” said Macey, musingly.

“Yes, so heavy, that when they galloped at each other with big clothes-prop things, and one of ’em was knocked off his horse, and lay flat on the ground, he couldn’t get up again without his squires to help him.”

“You never read that.”

“Well, no, but Vane Lee did. He told me all about it. I suppose, then, you’re ready to believe that the church-tower’s haunted?”

“I don’t say that,” said Macey, “but it does seem very strange.”

“Oh, yes, of course it does,” said Gilmore mockingly. “Depend upon it there was a tiny chap with a cloth cap, ending in a point sitting up on the timbers among the bells with a big hammer in his hands, and he was pounding away at the bell till he saw us coming, and then off he went, hammer and all.”

“I didn’t say I believed that,” said Macey; “but I do say it’s very strange.”

“Well, good-night, Syme,” said the doctor, who had halted at the turning leading up to the rectory front door. “It is very curious, but I can’t help thinking that it was all a prank played by some of the town lads to annoy the sexton. Well, Vane, my boy, ready for bed once more?”

Vane started out of a musing fit and said good-night to his tutor and fellow-pupils to walk back with his uncle.

“I can’t puzzle it out, Vane. I can’t puzzle it out,” the doctor said, and the nephew shivered, for fear that the old gentleman should turn upon him suddenly and say, “Can you?”

But no such question was asked, for the doctor began to talk about different little mysteries which he had met with in his career, all of which had had matter-of-fact explanations that came in time, and then they reached the house, to find a light in the breakfast-room, where Aunt Hannah was dressed, and had prepared some coffee for them.

“Oh, I have been so anxious,” she cried. “Whose place is burned?”

“No one’s,” said the doctor, cheerily; and then he related their experience.

“I’m very thankful it’s no worse,” said Aunt Hannah. “Some scamps of boys must have had a string tied to the bell, I suppose.”

Poor old lady, she seemed to think of the great tenor bell in the old tower as if it were something which could easily be swung by hand.

They did not sit long; and, ill at ease, and asking himself whether he was going to turn into a disingenuous cowardly cur, Vane gladly sought his chamber once more to sit down on the edge of his bed, and ponder over his day’s experience.

“It must have been through leaving out those two wheels,” he muttered, “that made something go off, and start the weight running down as fast as it could. I must speak about it first thing to-morrow morning, or the people will think the place is full of ghosts. Yes, I’ll tell uncle in the morning and he can do what he likes.”

On coming to this resolve Vane undressed and slipped into bed once more, laid his head on the pillow, and composed himself to sleep; but no sleep came, and with his face burning he glided out of bed again, put on a few things, and then stole out of his bedroom into the passage, where he stood hesitating for a few minutes.

“No,” he muttered as he drew a deep breath, “I will not be such a coward;” and, creeping along the passage, he tapped softly on the next bedroom door.

“Eh? Yes. Someone ill?” cried the doctor. “Down directly.”

“No, no, uncle, don’t get up,” cried Vane hoarsely. “I only wanted to tell you something.”

“Tell me something? Well, what is it?”

“I wanted to say that I had been trying to clean the church clock this afternoon, and I left out two of the wheels.”

“What!” roared the doctor. “Hang it all, boy, I think nature must have left out two of your wheels.”

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