Christmas Penny Readings: Original Sketches for the Season

No; once a week had Asher Skurge wound up that clock; and, “will he, nill he,” it seemed he must go this night and perform his old duty. But he did wait more than half an hour, and then how he did snap, and snarl, and worry the air – the cold air of the room. He might have been taken for a wiry terrier showing his teeth with impotent rage while worried by the attacks of a flea legion; but there was nothing for it, and he got up and tied his comforter three times round his neck; brought the horn lanthorn out of the cupboard, and then tried to illumine the scrap of candle at the bottom. But there was no illumination in that candle. To begin with, it was only a fag-end – one where the cotton did not reach the end of the grease, and to make matters worse, it had been extinguished in that popular manner – snuffing out with wet fingers. Consequently the candle end spit, spat, and sputtered; sent off little fatty scintillations, and then went out. Lit again, it went through the same process, and upon repeating this twice, Asher grew wroth, seized the offending morsel, and dashed it into the fire, where it flared up and seemed to rejoice in the warmth, whilst its indignant owner wiped his fingers in his scant hair, and then lit a fresh piece, closed the lanthorn, and opened the door for a start.

Talk about Will-o’-the-Wisps and hobgoblins, why Asher looked quite the equal of any ugly monstrosity of the imagination, as he went crunching and grumbling along the snowy path on his way to the belfry-door. The wind was colder than ever, while in spite of the howling din, it was bright and clear overhead, and the stars seemed not merely to twinkle, but quiver and dance.

Asher’s journey was but a short one, and mostly along the narrow side path which led amongst the tombstones and wooden tablets; but he cared no more for tombstones, and night walks in churchyards, than he did for walks in the meadows; so on he went, “crunch, crunch,” on the frozen snow, never pausing to admire the beautiful old church in its Christmas mantle, but growling and grumbling, and if it had been any other man we might have said swearing, till he reached the door in the tower and fumbled in the big key.

“Scraun-n-n-n-tch” went the old wards as the rusty key turned in the rusty lock; and “Crea-ee-ee-ak” went the great door upon its old hinges; and then setting down his lanthorn, Asher tried to shut the door again to keep out the bitter wind. But the door would not shut, but seemed as if something was pushing it back against him; and it was not until after two or three vigorous thrusts, that the old man stopped to scratch his head, and took up his lanthorn and examined the hinges; when, sure enough, there was something which prevented the door closing, for there was a great bone stuck in the crack, and it was so squeezed and jammed in that it took a great deal of getting out. But when it was got out, Asher threw it savagely away, for he minded not a bone or two when there was quite a heap in the corner behind him; so he threw it savagely away, and gave the door a bang which made the old tower jar, and the light in his lanthorn quiver, while just then there was a rattling noise, and something round came rolling up to him and stopped up against his feet so that the old man gave quite a start.

“Bah!” exclaimed Asher directly after, for he made no more account of a skull than the grave-digger in Hamlet. “Bah?” he exclaimed; and he gave the skull a fierce kick to send it back to the heap from whence it had rolled. But just then Asher gave a leap – a most nimble one, too, for so old a man; for the skull seemed to have seized him by the foot, and stuck tightly to his heavy boot, which he had driven through the thin bone, and half buried in the internal cavity.

“Why, what the – ?” What Asher would have said remains unknown, for he stopped short just as a mighty rush of wind smote the door, howled through the bottom of the tower, and nearly extinguished the horn-protected candle. The old man did not say any more, but kicked and kicked at the skull till it was loosened, when it flew off, and up against the stone wall with a sharp crack, and then down upon the floor; while Asher seized his lanthorn, and, troubled with an unusual feeling of trepidation, began to ascend the ricketty old oak ladder which led up to the floor where the bell-ringers had been that night pulling a few changes out of the five bells.

Asher Skurge crossed the floor, threading his way amongst the ropes, and then began to mount the next ladder; for there was no spiral staircase here. Up the ricketty, loose rounds, and then rising like a stage ghost through a trap-door, the clerk stood at length in the second floor amongst the ropes, which passed through to the bells above; and here, shut up in a gigantic cupboard, was the great clock whose announcements of the flight of time floated over vale and lea.

As the clerk drew near, all at once there began a whizzing, whirring noise, which drowned the “tic-tac; tic-tac” of the pendulum; and then loud and clear – too loud and too clear – sounded the great bell-hammer within, announcing that it was eleven o’clock.

“Ah!” growled Asher, as soon as the clock had struck; “nice time for my job!” and then he pulled out another key, and prepared to open the great clock cupboard.

“Hallo?” said Asher, “what now?” and he started back a step, for there was a tiny head and shoulders poked out of the keyhole, and two bright, glittering little eyes seemed to gaze at the clerk for a moment, and then popped in again.

Asher Skurge felt himself to be too old a bird to be caught with that sort of chaff – he only believed in four spirits, did Asher; and, after gin, rum, brandy, and whisky had been named, the speaker would have got to the end of Asher’s spiritual tether. So he put down his lanthorn and the key beside it; rubbed his eyes, lifted his hat, and scratched his head; and then began to warm himself by beating his hands against his breast.

“Gammon!” muttered Asher, taking up lanthorn and key, and going towards the cupboard again. “Gammon!” he exclaimed aloud, and was about to put the key in the hole, when out popped the tiny head again, and remained looking at the astonished clerk, who stopped short and opened his mouth widely.

“It’s the strong ale,” said Asher; and he made a poke at the keyhole with the key, when “bang, crash;” the door flew open and struck him in the face, knocked him down and his lanthorn out; and of course, you’ll say, “there he lay in the dark!”

Not a bit of it. There lay Asher Skurge, certainly; but not in the dark; for shining out from the middle of the clock was a bright, glowing light, which filled the place, and made the bell-ropes shine as if made of gold. There was the great clock with all its works; but high and low, everywhere, it was covered with tiny figures similar to the one which gazed out of the keyhole, and all busily at work: there were dozens clinging to the pendulum and swinging backwards and forwards upon the great bob, while a score at each side gave it a push every time it swung within reach; dozens more were sliding down the long shaft to reach those upon the bob; while the weights seemed quite alive with the busy little fellows toiling and straining to push them down. Astride of the spindles; climbing up the cogs as though they were steps; clinging in, out, and about every wheel; and all, as it were, bent upon the same object – forcing on the clock – hurry and bustle – bustle and hurry – up and down – down and up – climbing, crawling, and leaping in the golden light were the tiny figures pushing on the wheels.

Asher Skurge sat up with his hair lifting on his head, but a staunch and obstinate man was he, and he wouldn’t believe it a bit, and told himself in learned language it was a delusion; but for all that, he was very uncomfortable, and felt about for the old horn spectacles he had left in the room at home.

“I don’t care; it’s all gammon!” exclaimed the clerk; “and if I was to say, ‘crafts and assaults of the devil, Good Lord, deliver us,’ they’d all vanish.”

“No, they wouldn’t, Asher!” said a small voice close at his ear.

“Eh?” said Asher, starting.

“No, they wouldn’t, Asher,” said the voice again; “not till they’ve kept the clock going till your time’s up. You wanted it to run down, but we didn’t.”

Asher stared about him, and then saw that the tiny figure which first gazed at him from the keyhole was now squatted, nursing its knees, upon his lanthorn, and gazing fixedly at him.

“They wouldn’t vanish, Asher,” said the tiny figure; “and here they come.”

As it finished speaking, the little spirits came trooping towards Asher, and dragged out of his pocket a small key, which opened a padlock, and loosened a chain, and set at liberty the key of the great timepiece; for Asher was determined that no other hands should touch his clock, as he called it; but now he saw a couple of score of little figures seize the key, fit it in the hole, and then toil at it till they turned it round and round, and wound up first one and then the other weight.

“How much longer?” cried the little spirit upon the lanthorn.

“One hour,” cried all the other spirits in chorus; and the two words seemed to ring in Asher’s ears, and then go buzzing round the place, and even up and amongst the bells, so that there was a sort of dumb pealing echo of the words.

“‘One hour,’” cried Asher, at length; “what’s ‘one hour’?”

“One hour more for you,” said the little spirit, staring unwinkingly, with its little diamond eyes fixed upon Asher, while its mite of a chin rested upon its little bare knees.

“What do you mean,” said Asher, fiercely, “with your one more hour?” and then he tried to get up, but could not, for he found that a number of the little figures had busily tied him with the bell-ropes; and there he was fast, hand and foot.

“What do I mean?” said the little figure; “lie still, and I’ll tell you, Asher. I mean that your time’s nearly up, and that you have now only fifty-six minutes left.”

“It must be the strong ale,” muttered Asher, turning hot all over, after vainly trying to loosen his bands. “It must be the strong ale; but I think, perhaps, I’ll let Mrs Bond stay another week.”

“Ha! ha! ha! she’s all right. You see you didn’t make a will, Asher.”

“How do you know?” cried the old man, now growing quite alarmed. “Who says I didn’t make a will?”

“I do,” said the little figure. “But don’t waste time, man. Only fifty minutes; and time’s precious.”

“But who are you?” cried Asher, excitedly.

“Me?” said the little thing. “Oh, I’m only a second, like those climbing about the clock; and I’m the last one in your hour. There’s one beat off by the pendulum every moment. Don’t you see fresh ones keep going down?”

“No!” growled Asher, savagely, “I don’t.” But he did though, for all that, though he would not own to it. There they were, clinging to the great round ball of the pendulum, and one dropping off at every beat, while fresh ones kept gliding down the long shaft into their places. What became of the others he could not tell, for, as they fell off, they seemed to dissolve in the glow which lit up the old clock’s works.

It was of no use to struggle, for the efforts only made the ropes cut into his wrists and legs; and if it had not been that the rope which went round his neck was the part covered with worsted to save the ringers’ hands, it seemed to him that he would have been strangled. He was horribly frightened, but he would not own to it, and, in spite of the fierce cold, he felt wet with perspiration.

“How slow the time goes,” said the little figure. “I want to be off. You’re about ready, I suppose.”

“No I’m not,” cried Asher furiously, “I’ve no end to do.”

“Turn out Widow Bond for one thing,” said the figure with a mocking leer. “Never mind about that. Only forty-five more minutes now.”

“What a horrible dream,” cried Asher in agony.

“’Tisn’t a dream,” said the little figure. “You pinch your leg and try now, or stop, I will,” and in a moment the tiny fellow leaped down and nipped the clerk’s leg so vigorously that he shrieked with pain.

“Don’t feel like a dream, does it?” said the spirit.

“Don’t think it does,” said Asher, “at least I never dreamed so loud before that I know of.”

“No, I shouldn’t think you did, but you won’t dream any more,” said the little spirit.

“You don’t mean that?” said Asher in a pitiful voice.

“I shouldn’t have said it if I had not,” said the spirit. “Do you suppose we speak falsely?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” groaned Asher. “But, I say, let me go this time.”

“Thirty-five minutes,” said the little spirit; “only thirty-five minutes more, and then my work’s done, and yours too.”

Asher groaned again, and then gave a furious struggle, which only tightened the ropes and made one of the bells above give a sonorous clang, which sounded like a knell to the groaning clerk.

“How are you going to do it?” he cried at last.