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. "She's about O. K. now. Running fine--I'm just tinkering the catch on the door, for even Richard Parsons cannot coax things into wearing forever. She'll go home to-day." There was a sigh from the Scotchman. "I do believe you're sorry to be done with her," asserted the boy mischievously. A second later, however, he regretted his impulsive jest, for his companion answered gravely: "I am. I've enjoyed working on her. I'd be far sorrier, though, did I not know she is going where she will be appreciated. The woman that owns her watches over her as if she were a live creature--and indeed she is--almost." "It's nice to feel she isn't being wasted on some dumbbell, isn't it?" declared Christopher, catching the old man's enthusiasm. "She's not being wasted. I can answer for that. I know the house where she lives well, for I've been there times without number to regulate clocks. There are some beauties and they have the history of every one of them--the name of the maker, the date when they were made, the place, and all. I like to handle clocks for people like that. It shows they are intelligent and care. Some folks do not know one thing about their clocks. They won't even take the trouble to wind them regularly. Nevertheless they are the first ones to fuss if the poor things fail to keep good time. I wonder how they would like, for example, to have their meals served to them just whenever somebody happened to think of it." Christopher nodded agreement with the sentiment. "To be sure," McPhearson continued, "people sometimes own clocks that aren't worth much pains. Still, it's only right to keep them cleaned and help them to do the best they can, even at that. All clocks can't be Tompions, or Grahams, or Quares, any more than we can all be Washingtons and Lincolns. It isn't their fault nor ours." "You care a lot about clocks, don't you?" meditated Christopher aloud.