discrimination," I asserted, recalling Willy Woolly's flattering
acceptance of myself.

"A faker," asseverated my friend. "He pretends to see things."

I sat up straight on my bench. "Things? What kind of things?"

"Things that aren't there," returned the Little Red Doctor, and fell to
musing. "They couldn't be," he added presently and argumentatively.

Receiving no encouragement when I sought further details, I asked
whether he had called the new resident to account for the delinquencies
of his clocks. He shook his head.

"I didn't have time," said he doggedly.

"Time? Why, there's nothing but time in that house."

The Little Red Doctor chose to take my feeble joke at par. "No time at
all. None of the clocks keep it."

"How does he manage his life, then?"

"Willy Woolly does that for him. Barks him up in the morning. Jogs his
elbow at mealtimes. Tucks him in bed at night, for all I know."

Thus abortively ended Our Square's protest against Stepfather Time and
his House of Silvery Voices. The Little Red Doctor's obscure suggestion
stuck in my mind, and a few nights later I made a second call. Curiosity
rather than neighborliness was the inciting cause. Therefore I ought to