Harkless that some supping god had inadvertently peppered his custard, and
now inverted and emptied his gigantic blue dish upon the earth, the
innumerable little black dots seeming to poise for a moment, then floating
slowly down from the heights.

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