“No garage? Haven't any garage! What town is this,—if you call it a town?”
“Why, mon, this is Sawbeth Volley! Shorely ye've heard of Sawbeth Volley!”
“No, I never heard of it!” said the stranger contemptuously, “but from what I've seen of it so far I should say it ought to be called Hell's Pit! Well, what do you do when you want your car fixed?”
“Well, we don't hoppen to hove a cyar,” said Tom with a meditative air, stooping to examine the spokes of a wheel, “Boot, ef we hod mon, I'm thenkin' we'd fix it!”
Jim gave a flicker of a chuckle in his throat, but kept his outward gravity. The stranger eyed the two malevolently, helplessly, and began once more, holding his rage with a cold voice.
“Well, how much do you want to fix my car?” he asked, thrusting his hand into his pocket and bringing out an affluent wallet.
The men straightened up and eyed him coldly. Jim turned indifferently away and stepped back to the sidewalk. Tom lifted his chin and replied kindly:
“Why, Mon, it's the Sawbeth, didn't ye know? I'm s'proised at ye! It's the Sawbeth, an' this is Sawbeth Volley! We don't wurruk on the Sawbeth day in Sawbeth Volley. Whist! Hear thot, mon?”
He lifted his hand and from the stone belfry near-by came the solemn tone of the chime, pealing out a full round of melody, and then tolling solemnly twelve slow strokes. There was something almost uncanny about it that held the stranger still, as if an unseen presence with a convincing voice had been invoked. The young man sat under the spell till the full complement of the ringing was finished, the workman with his hand up holding attention, and Jim Rafferty quietly enjoying it all from the curb stone.
When the last sweet resonance had died out, the Scotchman's hand went slowly down, and the stranger burst forth with an oath: