“Oh, come, I’m not going to be beaten like this,” cried Vane, “I know I can put the old clock right.”
“Nay, nay, not you,” said the sexton firmly.
“But I took our kitchen clock to pieces, and put it together again; and now it goes splendidly—only it doesn’t strike right.”
“Mebbe,” said the sexton, “but this arn’t a kitchen clock. Nay, Master Vane, the man ’ll hev to come fro Lincun to doctor she.”
“But let me just—”
“Nay, nay, you don’t touch her again.”
The man was so firm that Vane had to give way and descend, forgetting all about the piece of leather he wanted, and parting from the sexton at the door as the key was turned, and then walking back home, to go at once to his workshop and sit down to think.
There was plenty for him to do—any number of mechanical contrivances to go on with, notably the one intended to move a boat without oars, sails, or steam, but they were not church clocks, and for the time being nothing interested him but the old clock whose hands were pointing absurdly as to the correct time.
All at once a thought struck Vane, and he jumped up, thrust a pair of pliers, a little screw-wrench and a pair of pincers into his pockets and went out again.