"A rub for the reactionaries!" mused Toby.
"Who puts into the mouth of Time, or of its servants, a cry of lamentation for days which have had their trial and their failure, and have left deep traces of it which the blind may see—a cry that only serves the present time, by showing men how much it needs their help when any ears can listen to regrets for such a past—who does this does us wrong."
"A flout for our Fair-Traders!" thought Toby.
"Who hears in us, the Chimes, one note bespeaking disregard, or stern regard, of any hope, or joy, or sorrow, of the many-sorrowed throng; who hears us make response to any creed that gauges human passions and affections, as it gauges the amount of miserable food on which humanity may pine and wither, does us wrong."
"What would the contemners of the people's claims, the deriders of the people's miseries, make of that, I wonder?" meditated Toby.
"Who hears us echo the dull vermin of the earth, the Putters Down of crushed and broken natures, formed to be raised up higher than such maggots of the time can crawl or can conceive, does us wrong."
"Pity the shriekers for unlimited Suppression can't hear this!" cogitated Toby.
Bow-wow-wow! Again it was the voice of Toby. This time it did mean warning, if not reproof. Not anger exactly; anger alone is scarce suited to the Christmas season.
The Bell-ringers were going it. With plenty of energy, unquestionably, but with scarcely as much discretion as might be desired. A rather mixed lot. Each one individually an excellent hand at the rope, no doubt. Evergreen Will, of the leonine front, and flying silvery whisps of hair! Black-a-vised Bob, of the broad shoulders and resolute tug. Stolid, but sturdy Harty, of the firmly-planted feet and granite grip! Fiery though mild-featured Joachim; sombre, smug-faced, but enthusiastic John! Last, though perhaps hardly least (in his own estimation, at all events), rattling Randolph, light-weight, none too firm of footing, but full of dash, and game to attempt a triple bob-major all by himself.