“Charley Phelps spends most of his hours smoking that vile pipe of his and entertaining his roustabout friends,” Old Seth snapped. “He doesn’t know as much as a child about complicated clock machinery. What he can’t take care of with an oil can goes unrepaired!”
The conversation had moved in exactly the channel which Penny desired.
“No doubt that explains why the clock hasn’t always been striking right of late,” she said in an offhand way. “Last night I was almost sure I heard it strike thirteen instead of twelve times. In fact, I had a little argument with my father about it.”
“You were correct,” the old man assured her. “I was working late here in the shop and heard it myself.”
“There! You see, Louise!” Penny cried triumphantly, turning to her chum.
“Mr. McGuire, what would cause the clock to strike wrong?” the other asked.
“I was wondering myself,” he admitted. “In all the ten years I was at the tower, it never once struck an incorrect hour. I think that there must have been something wrong with the striking train.”
“Pardon my ignorance,” laughed Penny, “but what in the world is the striking train?”
“Oh, we apply that name to the center section of the mechanism which operates the clock. The going train drives the hands, while the quarter train chimes the quarter-hours, sounding four tuned bells.”
“Just as clear as mud,” sighed Louise who disliked all mechanical things. “Does the clock strike wrong every night?”