“This must be looked to, father!” he solemnly declared. “It can hardly be the dun heifer can so soon again have forgotten herself. There’s been nothing going on that I know of, that the old bell need wake up and toll about at this time o’ night. We’d better go and make an investigation.”
There were plenty more of the same way of thinking, and now they were gathering at the Academy door, some with umbrellas and some without, and not a few of them had brought along their lanterns.
And now the door was opened by the Rev. Dr. Dryer in person, as on the previous occasion, and the whole crowd, variously half-clad, were glad enough to get in out of the rain.
There was the mystery, however, right before them.
No rope, no cow, and the old bell banging ceaselessly away, up there in the steeple.
“She’s working tip-top,” whispered a cautious voice in Bar Vernon’s ear. “You said as how the fun’d come the first windy night, and I footed it over arter my sheer. It’s most as good as boat-buildin’.”
“All right, Puff; only keep still,” returned Bar. “Let’s see what they’ll do about it.”
There were other volunteers to go up with George Brayton that night, however, and although Zebedee Fuller crept along behind one of the trustees, he did not seem disposed to make himself at all conspicuous.
He had noted the presence of Bar and Val, but had promptly dismissed them from his calculations with the silent question:
“What do city fellows know about bells?”