"Joined the secret service yet, Master Christopher?"
Poor Christopher, who was none too proud of the part he had played, was a good deal abashed; nevertheless he tried to accept the banter cheerfully, perceiving that it was kindly intentioned. But the glory of it paled at last, and, weary of such jests, he fled to seek out McPhearson, who, he felt sure, would offer him no flattery.
The Scotchman was so busy toiling over the bracket clock with the chimes that he did no more than glance up when the boy dropped down on the stool opposite.
"I hear you did a pretty bit of work yesterday," he at last remarked.
"No, I didn't. On the contrary I was darn stupid. I had the chance to be a hero, but I muffed it."
"They didn't seem to think so downstairs," was the clockmaker's laconic retort.
"Oh, I didn't do much of anything, honest I didn't, Mr. McPhearson. I just happened along at the right time—or, perhaps—at the wrong," explained the boy with an embarrassed laugh.
"Apparently it was decidedly at the wrong," observed the old man, continuing to file with extreme care a bit of brass he held between his fingers.
Christopher watched, admiring the speed and skill of his gnarled fingers.
"How's she getting along?" ventured he after a long silence.