“Where are the weights, Mike?” cried Vane, thrusting in his head, and looking up. “Oh, I see them.”
“Ay, you can see ’em, lad, wound right up. There, let’s go and see.”
The sexton led the way up to the next floor, but here they were stopped by a door, which was slowly opened after he had played his tune upon the key pipes.
“Oh I say, Mike, what a horrible old bore you are,” cried the boy, impatiently.
“Then thou shouldstna hev coom, lad,” said the sexton as they stood now in a chamber through which the bell ropes passed and away up through eight more holes in the next ceiling, while right in the middle stood the skeleton works of the great clock, with all its wheels and escapements open to the boy’s eager gaze, as he noted everything, from the portion which went out horizontally through the wall to turn the hands on the clock’s face, to the part where the pendulum hung, and on either side the two great weights which set the machine in motion, and ruled the striking of the hours.
The clock was screwed down to a frame-work of oaken beams, and looked, in spite of its great age and accumulation of dust, in the best of condition, and, to the sexton’s horror, Vane forgot all about the eight big bells overhead, and the roof of the tower, from which there was a magnificent view over the wolds, and stripped off his jacket.
“What are you going to do, lad?” cried the sexton.
“See what’s the matter. Why the clock won’t go.”
“Nay, nay, thou must na touch it, lad. Why, it’s more than my plaace is worth to let anny one else touch that theer clock.”
“Oh, nonsense! Here, give me the oil.”