The stenographer kicked the bundle open. Then, howling with pain, he grabbed his toe. In the center of the bundle lay a mantel clock. “Might have killed you–easy,” he spluttered at Kelly, and raised indignant eyes to where an old woman, her wrinkled face filled with anxiety, leaned over the railing. “Did you throw that clock?” demanded Mr. Jones.
She held her hand to her ear and smiled sweetly. “What?” she called.
“Clock,” bawled Mr. Jones. “Did you drop that clock?”
“I can’t hear you,” she answered.
“Clock,” yelled the private secretary.
“Yes, it’s mine. Thank you for telling me that it is not hurt,” she responded in great contentment to the vexed Mr. Jones.
The reunited official staff of Obadiah moved on, one member limping, the other caressing his head.
Gentle peace returned for the moment to the emotion-swept aged ones. But now, through the gates of the Home rushes the fire department of South Ridgefield. With awe inspiring roar and mighty clangor of bells the engines advance, reflecting gorgeously in the afternoon sun. Taxpayers must have thrilled with pride as they remarked the speed of approach and energy with which these public servants entered upon their duties. Even as they halt, powerful pumps sound, ready to deluge the edifice with water while enthusiastic men with axes rush into the halls and upon the roof, prepared to hew.
“Where is the fire?” demanded the chief in a voice of authority.
Silently, Mrs. Bean led him to the blackened leaves.