They passed each other, saying not a word.
As the young man reached the porch steps, there came from the outhouse a loud Blongle, blongle, blongle, blok, blok, and he paused, one foot on the steps, lips thinned. He seated himself deliberately, and only then did he look around.
The new bell was twice as large as the former. The chain was heavier. It hung from a heavy cast-iron mounting.
The man in black came out. He sauntered back to the porch and seated himself.
Half a non-existent hour passed—non-existent, because it passed in timelessness. The young man sat quietly, seeming to ponder; the man in black sat as quietly, smoking his sulphur; the three old men sat like mice, their eyes shuttling back and forth between the two antagonists.
At last the young man got up and walked slowly to the outhouse. The cowbell and its paraphernalia vanished. This time with a flash of white light.
The man in black dropped a new lump of smoking sulphur into his pipe and tamped it down with his thumb. He walked to the outhouse and replaced the bell with a still bigger one. He yanked at the chain, and raucous bellsound filled the yard.
He came back, and they sat around a while longer.
The young man went out. The new bell vanished with a flash like diamond-blue lightning.