“But you ought not to be entirely satisfied,” said Arla, “for the clock does not keep good time. I know when it is striking, for it has a very jangling sound, and it is the most irregular clock in Rondaine. Sometimes it strikes as much as twenty-five minutes after the hour, and very often it does not strike at all.”
The cobbler looked up at her with a smile. “I am sorry,” he said, “that it has a jangling stroke, but the fashioning of clocks is not my trade, and I could not mend its sound with awl, hammer, or waxed-end. But it seems to me, my good maiden, that you never mended a pair of shoes.”
“No, indeed!” said Arla; “I should do that even worse than you would make clocks.”
“Never having mended shoes, then,” said the cobbler, “you do not know what a grievous thing it is to have twelve o’clock, or six o’clock, or any other hour, in fact, come before you are ready for it. Now, I don’t mind telling you, because I know you are too good to spoil the trade of a hard-working cobbler—and shoemaker too, whenever he gets the chance to be one—that when I have promised a customer that he shall have his shoes or his boots at a certain time of day, and that time is drawing near, and the end of the job is still somewhat distant, then do I skip up the stairway and set back the hands of the clock according to the work that has to be done. And when my customer comes I look up to the clock-face and I say to him, ‘Glad to see you!’ and then he will look up at the clock and will say, ‘Yes, I am a little too soon;’ and then, as likely as not, he will sit down on the doorstep here by me and talk entertainingly; and it may happen that he will sit there without grumbling for many minutes after the clock has pointed out the hour at which the shoes were promised.
“Sometimes, when I have been much belated in beginning a job, I stop the clock altogether, for you can well see for yourself that it would not do to have it strike eleven when it is truly twelve. And so, if my man be willing to sit down, and our talk be very entertaining, the clock being above him where he cannot see it without stepping outward from the house, he may not notice that it is stopped. This once served me very well, for an old gentleman, over-testy and over-punctual, once came to me for his shoes, and looking up at the clock, which I had prepared for him, exclaimed, ‘Bless me! I am much too early!’ And he sat down by me for three-quarters of an hour, in which time I persuaded him that his shoes were far too much worn to be worth mending any more, and that he should have a new pair, which, afterward, I made.”
“I do not believe it is right for you to do that,” said Arla; “but even if you think so, there is no reason why your clock should go wrong at night, when so many people can hear it because of the stillness.”
“Ah, me!” said the cobbler, “I do not object to the clock being as right as you please in the night; but when my day’s work is done, I am in such a hurry to go home to my supper that I often forget to put the clock right, or to set it going if it is stopped. But so many things stop at night—such as the day itself—and so many things then go wrong—such as the ways of evil-minded people—that I think you truly ought to pardon my poor clock.”
“Then you will not consent,” said Arla, “to make it go right?”
“I will do that with all cheerfulness,” answered the cobbler, pulling out a pair of waxed-ends with a great jerk, “as soon as I can make myself go right. The most important thing should always be done first; and, surely, I am more important than a clock!” And he smiled with great good-humor.
Arla knew that it would be of no use to stand there any longer and talk with this cobbler. Turning to go, she said: