“Oh, that won't matter,” said the niece.
Billy looked at her in amazement. Was his old friend's sacred wish to miscarry thus?
“Yes, 'twill matter,” he said, in a loud whisper. “And if time won't wait for Tommy of its own accord, we'll make it. When did he last see the clock?”
“Half-past nine,” said the housekeeper.
“Then we'll turn it back to ten,” said Skidmore, acting as he spoke.
“But he may hear the town clock strike.”
Billy said never a word, but plunged into his overcoat, threw on his hat, and hurried on into the cold night.
“Ten minutes to midnight,” he said, as he looked up at the town clock upon the church steeple. “Can I skin up them ladders in time?”
Tommy awoke once before the last slumber. Billy was by his bedside, as were the doctor, the housekeeper, and the niece. The old man's eyes sought the clock.
“Eleven,” he murmured. Then he was silent, for the town clock had begun to strike. He counted the strokes—eleven. Then he smiled and tried to speak again.