“Eh! Has it?” cried Vane eagerly. “What’s the matter with it?”
“I d’know sir. Somethin’ wrong in its inside, I spect. I’m gooing to see.”
“Forgotten to wind it up, Mike.”
“Nay, that I arn’t, sir. Wound her up tight enew.”
“Then that’s it. Wound up too tight, perhaps.”
“Nay, she’s been wound up just the same as I’ve wound her these five-and-twenty year, just as father used to. She’s wrong inside.”
“Goes stiff. Wants a little oil. Bring some in a bottle with a feather and I’ll soon put it right.”
The sexton pointed with his hammer to the chimney-piece where a small phial bottle was standing, and Vane took it up at once, and began turning a white fowl’s feather round to stir up the oil.
“You mean to come, then?” said the sexton.
“Of course. I’m fond of machinery,” cried Vane.