A farm-bell rang in the distance, a tinkling coming small and mellow from
far away, and at the lonesomeness of that sound he heaved a long, mournful
sigh. The next instant he broke into laughter, for another bell rang over
the fields, the court-house bell in the Square. The first four strokes
were given with mechanical regularity, the pride of the custodian who
operated the bell being to produce the effect of a clock-work bell such as
he had once heard in the court-house at Rouen; but the fifth and sixth
strokes were halting achievements, as, after four o'clock, he often lost
count on the strain of the effort for precise imitation. There was a pause
after the sixth, then a dubious and reluctant stroke--seven--a longer
pause, followed by a final ring with desperate decision--eight! Harkless
looked at his watch; it was twenty minutes of six.
As he crossed the court-house yard to the Palace Hotel, he stopped to
exchange a word with the bell-ringer, who, seated on the steps, was
mopping his brow with an air of hard-earned satisfaction.
"Good-evening, Schofields'," he said. "You came in strong on the last
stroke, to-night."
"What we need here," responded the bell-ringer, "is more public-spirited
men. I ain't kickin' on you, Mr. Harkless, no sir; but we want more men
like they got in Rouen; we want men that'll git Main Street paved with
block or asphalt; men that'll put in factories, men that'll act and not
set round like that ole fool Martin and laugh and polly-woggle and make
fun of public sperrit, day in and out. I reckon I do my best for the
city."
"Oh, nobody minds Tom Martin," answered Harkless. "It's only half the time
he means anything by what he says."
"That's jest what I hate about him," returned the bell-ringer in a tone of
high complaint; "you can't never tell which half it is. Look at him now!"
Over in front of the hotel Martin was standing, talking to the row of
coatless loungers who sat with their chairs tilted back against the props
of the wooden awning that projected over the sidewalk. Their faces were
turned toward the court-house, and even those lost in meditative whittling
had looked up to laugh. Martin, his hands in the pockets of his alpaca
coat, his rusty silk hat tilted forward till the wide brim rested almost
on the bridge of his nose, was addressing them in his one-keyed voice, the
melancholy whine of which, though not the words, penetrated to the court-
house steps.
The bell-ringer, whose name was Henry Schofield, but who was known as
Schofield's Henry (popularly abbreviated to Schofields') was moved to
indignation. "Look at him," he cried. "Look at him! Everlastingly goin' on
about my bell! Let him talk, jest let him talk." The supper gong boomed
inside the hotel and Harkless bade the bell-ringer good-night. As he moved
away the latter called after him: "He don't disturb nobody. Let him talk.
Who pays any 'tention to him I'd like to know?" There was a burst of
laughter from the whittlers. Schofields' sat in patient silence for a full
minute, as one who knew that no official is too lofty to escape the
anathemas of envy. Then he sprang to his feet and shook his fist at
Martin, who was disappearing within the door of the hotel. "Go to
Halifax!" he shouted.