As they hung in the fair dome of the sky below the few white clouds, it occurred to 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.