“Hallo?” said Asher, “what now?” and he started back a step, for there was a tiny head and shoulders poked out of the keyhole, and two bright, glittering little eyes seemed to gaze at the clerk for a moment, and then popped in again.
Asher Skurge felt himself to be too old a bird to be caught with that sort of chaff—he only believed in four spirits, did Asher; and, after gin, rum, brandy, and whisky had been named, the speaker would have got to the end of Asher’s spiritual tether. So he put down his lanthorn and the key beside it; rubbed his eyes, lifted his hat, and scratched his head; and then began to warm himself by beating his hands against his breast.
“Gammon!” muttered Asher, taking up lanthorn and key, and going towards the cupboard again. “Gammon!” he exclaimed aloud, and was about to put the key in the hole, when out popped the tiny head again, and remained looking at the astonished clerk, who stopped short and opened his mouth widely.
“It’s the strong ale,” said Asher; and he made a poke at the keyhole with the key, when “bang, crash;” the door flew open and struck him in the face, knocked him down and his lanthorn out; and of course, you’ll say, “there he lay in the dark!”
Not a bit of it. There lay Asher Skurge, certainly; but not in the dark; for shining out from the middle of the clock was a bright, glowing light, which filled the place, and made the bell-ropes shine as if made of gold. There was the great clock with all its works; but high and low, everywhere, it was covered with tiny figures similar to the one which gazed out of the keyhole, and all busily at work: there were dozens clinging to the pendulum and swinging backwards and forwards upon the great bob, while a score at each side gave it a push every time it swung within reach; dozens more were sliding down the long shaft to reach those upon the bob; while the weights seemed quite alive with the busy little fellows toiling and straining to push them down. Astride of the spindles; climbing up the cogs as though they were steps; clinging in, out, and about every wheel; and all, as it were, bent upon the same object—forcing on the clock—hurry and bustle—bustle and hurry—up and down—down and up—climbing, crawling, and leaping in the golden light were the tiny figures pushing on the wheels.
Asher Skurge sat up with his hair lifting on his head, but a staunch and obstinate man was he, and he wouldn’t believe it a bit, and told himself in learned language it was a delusion; but for all that, he was very uncomfortable, and felt about for the old horn spectacles he had left in the room at home.
“I don’t care; it’s all gammon!” exclaimed the clerk; “and if I was to say, ‘crafts and assaults of the devil, Good Lord, deliver us,’ they’d all vanish.”
“No, they wouldn’t, Asher!” said a small voice close at his ear.
“Eh?” said Asher, starting.
“No, they wouldn’t, Asher,” said the voice again; “not till they’ve kept the clock going till your time’s up. You wanted it to run down, but we didn’t.”