"Well," said Trove, already merrier than most of far better fortune, "he must have been somebody that knew my needs."
VII
Darrel of the Blessed Isles
The clock tinker was off in the snow paths every other week. In more than a hundred homes, scattered far along road lines of the great valley, he set the pace of the pendulums. Every winter the mare was rented for easy driving and Darrel made his journeys afoot. Twice a day Trove passed the little shop, and if there were a chalk mark on the dial, he bounded upstairs to greet his friend. Sometimes he brought another boy into the rare atmosphere of the clock shop—one, mayhap, who needed some counsel of the wise old man.
Spring had come again. Every day sowers walked the hills and valleys around Hillsborough, their hands swinging with a godlike gesture that summoned the dead to rise; everywhere was the odour of broken field or garden. Night had come again, after a day of magic sunlight, and soon after eight o'clock Trove was at the door of the tinker with a schoolmate.
"How are you?" said Trove, as Darrel opened the door.
"Better for the sight o' you," said the old man, promptly. "Enter
Sidney Trove and another young gentleman."
The boys took the two chairs offered them in silence.
"Kind sor," the tinker added, turning to Trove, "thou hast thy cue; give us the lines."
"Pardon me," said the boy. "Mr. Darrel, my friend Richard Kent."