There was a pause
after the sixth, then a dubious and reluctant stroke--seven--a longer
pause, followed by a final ring with desperate decision--eight! Harkless
looked at his watch; it was twenty minutes of six.
As he crossed the court-house yard to the Palace Hotel, he stopped to
exchange a word with the bell-ringer, who, seated on the steps, was
mopping his brow with an air of hard-earned satisfaction.
"Good-evening, Schofields'," he said. "You came in strong on the last
stroke, to-night."
"What we need here," responded the bell-ringer, "is more public-spirited
men. I ain't kickin' on you, Mr. Harkless, no sir; but we want more men
like they got in Rouen; we want men that'll git Main Street paved with
block or asphalt; men that'll put in factories, men that'll act and not
set round like that ole fool Martin and laugh and polly-woggle and make
fun of public sperrit, day in and out. I reckon I do my best for the
city."
"Oh, nobody minds Tom Martin," answered Harkless. "It's only half the time
he means anything by what he says."
"That's jest what I hate about him," returned the bell-ringer in a tone of
high complaint; "you can't never tell which half it is. Look at him now!"
Over in front of the hotel Martin was standing, talking to the row of
coatless loungers who sat with their chairs tilted back against the props
of the wooden awning that projected over the sidewalk.
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