“I thought,” continued Arla, “that if this should be made known to you, you would have the works of the stone man and the stone woman altered so that they might strike at the right time. They can be heard so far, you know, that it is very necessary they should not make mistakes.”
“Child,” said the man, with his spectacles still steadily fixed on her, “for one hundred and fifty-seven years the open tower on this building has stood there. For one hundred and fifty-seven years the thunder and the lightning in time of storm have roared and flashed around it, and the sun in time of fair weather has shone upon it. In that century and a half and seven years men and women have lived and have died, and their children and their grandchildren and their great-grandchildren, and even the children of these, have lived and died after them. Kings and queens have passed away, one after another; and all things living have grown old and died, one generation after another, many times. And yet, through all these years, that stone man and that stone woman have stood there, and in storm and in fair weather, by daylight or in the darkness of night, they have struck the hours and the half-hours. Of all things that one hundred and fifty-seven years ago were able to lift an arm to strike, they alone are left. And now you, a child of thirteen, or perhaps fourteen years, come to me and ask me to change that which has not been changed for a century and a half and seven years!”
Arla could answer nothing with those spectacles fixed upon her. They seemed to glare more and more as she looked at them. “Good-morning, sir,” she said, dropping a courtesy as she moved backward toward the door. Reaching it, she turned and hurried into the street.
“If those stone people,” she thought, “have not been altered in all these years, it is likely they would now be striking two or three hours out of the way! But I don’t know. If they kept on going slow for more than a century, they must have come around to the right hour sometimes. But they will have to strike ever and ever so much longer before they come around there again!”
Arla now walked on until she came to a street corner where a cobbler had a little shop. In the angle of the wall of the house, at the height of the second story, was a clock. This cobbler did not like the confined air and poor light of his shop, and whenever the weather allowed he always worked outside on the sidewalk. To-day, although it was winter, the sun shone brightly on this side of the street, and he had put his bench outside, close to his door, and was sitting there, hard at work. When Arla stopped before him he looked up and said, cheerfully:
“Good-morning, Mistress Arla. Do you want them half-soled, or heeled, or a patch put on the toes?”
“My shoes do not need mending,” said Arla. “I came to ask you if you could tell me who has charge of the clock at this corner?”
“I can easily do that,” he said, “for I am the man. I am paid by the year, for winding it up and keeping it in order, as much as I should get for putting the soles, heels, tops, linings, and buckles on a pair of shoes.”
“Which means making them out and out,” said Arla.
“You are right,” said he, “and the pay is not great; but if it were larger, more people might want it and I might lose it; and if it were less, how could I afford to do it at all? So I am satisfied.”