The Gentleman from Indiana - Page 19/212

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.