The Clock Strikes Thirteen Part 7

Jerking open the car door, Penny slid behind the steering wheel and jammed her foot on the starter. Leaping Lena, apparently realizing that her young mistress was in no mood for trifling, responded with instantaneous action.

"I guess you're satisfied now that the clock never struck thirteen,"

Louise teased as the car fairly leaped forward.

"I should say not!" Penny retorted. "Why, I'm more convinced than ever that something went wrong with the mechanism last night. Phelps knew it too, and for that reason didn't want us asking questions!"

"You die hard, Penny," chuckled Louise. "From now on, I suppose you'll go around asking everyone you meet: 'Where were you at midnight of the thirteenth?'"

"It wouldn't do any good. Most folks just take things for granted in this world. But there's one person who would pay attention to that clock!"

"Who?"

"Why, old Seth McGuire. We'll drive out to his farm and ask him about it."

"It's lunch time and I'm hungry," Louise protested.

"Oh, you can spend the rest of your life eating," Penny overruled her.

"Business before pleasure, you know."

Seth McGuire, one of Riverview's best known and well loved characters, had been caretaker at the Hubell Clock Tower from the day of its erection, and the girls could not but wonder why he had been relieved of his post. The old man had personally installed the complicated machinery, caring for it faithfully over the years. In fact, his only other interest in life was his farm, located a mile from the city limits, and it was there that Penny hoped to find him.

"Watch for a sign, 'Sleepy Hollow,'" she instructed. "Mr. McGuire has given his place a fancy name."

A moment later Louise, seeing the marker, cried: "There it is! Slow down!"

Penny slammed on the brakes and Leaping Lena responded by shivering in every one of her ancient joints. Louise was thrown forward, barely catching herself in time to prevent a collision with the windshield.

"Why don't you join a stunt circus?" she said irritably. "You drive like Demon Dan!"

"We're here," replied Penny cheerfully. "Nice looking place, isn't it?"

The car had pulled up near a small, neatly-kept cottage framed in well-trimmed greenery. An even, rich green lawn was highlighted here and there by beds of bright red and blue flowers.

After admiring the grounds, the girls rang the front bell. Receiving no response, they went around to the rear, pounding on the kitchen screen door.

"Mr. McGuire's not here," said Louise. "Just another wild goose chase."

"Let's try this out-building," Penny suggested, indicating a long, low structure made of cement building blocks which was roofed with tin. A sign dangling above the door proclaimed that it was the foundry and machine shop of one Seth McGuire, maker of bells and clocks.

As the girls peered through the open door an arresting sight met their gaze. Through clouds of smoke they saw a spry old man directing the movements of a muscular youth who pulled a large pot-shaped crucible of molten metal on an overhead pulley track.

"Are you Seth McGuire?" Penny shouted to make herself heard above the noise of running machinery.

The old man, turning his head, waved them back.

"Don't come in here now!" he warned. "It's dangerous. Wait until we pour the bell."

With deft, sure hands, the old fellow pulled control chains attached to the crucible. The container twisted and finally overturned, allowing the molten metal to pour into a bell-shaped mold. As the last drops ran out of it, a great cloud of steam arose, enveloping both the old man and his helper.

"Won't they be burned?" Louise murmured in alarm, moving hastily backwards.

"Mr. McGuire seems to know what he's doing," Penny answered, watching with interest.

In a moment the steam cleared away, and the old man motioned that the girls might come inside.

"You'll have to excuse my manners," he apologized, his mild blue eyes regarding them with a twinkle. "Pouring a bell is exacting work and you can't stop until it's done."

"Is that what you were doing?" Penny inquired, staring at the steaming ma.s.s which had been poured into the mold. "It's sort of like making a gelatin pudding, isn't it?"

"Jake and me never thought of it that way," the old man replied. "I learned from an old Swiss bell maker when I was a lad. And I apprenticed under a master, you may be sure of that."

"How do you make a bell anyway?" Louise inquired curiously.

"You can't tell in five minutes what it takes a lifetime to learn," the old man answered. "Now a bell like this one I'm making for the Methodist Church at Blairstown takes a heap o' work. Jake and me have worked a solid week getting the pattern and mold ready for that pouring job you just saw."

"Do you ever have any failures?" Penny asked, seeking to draw him out.

"Not many, but once in awhile a bell cracks," the old fellow said modestly. "That happens when the mold is damp, or not of proper temperature. If ga.s.ses collect you may get a nice healthy explosion, too!"

"Does it take a long while to finish a bell after it's been poured?"

Penny pursued the subject.

"A large one may require a week to cool, but I'll have this fellow out of the mold by tomorrow night," Mr. McGuire returned. "Then we'll polish her off, put in the clapper, and attach the bell to a st.u.r.dy mounting. If the tone is right, she'll be ready to install."

"How do you tell about the tone?" Louise questioned in perplexity.

"This one should have a deep, low tone," the old man replied. "Other things being equal, a large bell gives a deeper tone than a small one.

Pitch depends upon diameter, and timbre upon the shape and the alloy used."

"I never realized there was much to a bell besides its ding-dong,"

commented Penny. "But tell me, Mr. McGuire, do you find this work more interesting than taking care of the Clock Tower?"

"Looking after that place wasn't work. It was more like a rest cure. I took the job because, twelve years ago when the tower went up, they couldn't find a competent man to look after the clock."

"And now you've gone back to your old trade?"

"Oh, I liked it at the tower," Old Seth admitted truthfully. "I'm a bit old to do heavy work such as this. More than likely I'd have gone on putting in my time if Mr. Blake hadn't wanted the job for a friend of his."

"Mr. Blake?" Penny inquired thoughtfully. "Do you mean Clyde Blake, the real estate man?"

The old bell maker nodded as he gazed moodily out the window toward the distant tower which could be seen outlined against the blue sky.

"Yes, it was Blake that eased me out of that job. He has a lot of influence and he uses it in ways some might say isn't always proper. I can make a fair living as long as I have my health, so I'm not complaining."

"We met the new caretaker this morning," Penny said after a moment. "He wasn't very polite to us, and the grounds have gone to wrack and ruin."

"Did you notice the flower beds?" Old Seth asked, feeling creeping into his voice. "Half choked with weeds. Charley Phelps hasn't turned a hand since he took over there six weeks ago."