"
Pendleton sighed drearily.
There were many clocks in the rooms; the policemen must have amused
themselves by winding and setting them; for at the end of each hour
they began to strike, singly and in pairs. The brisk strokes of the
nervous little modern clock mingled with the solemn sonorous beat of
an old New England timepiece whose wooden works creaked and labored
complainingly. Elaborate Swiss chimes pealed from others; through the
darkness, a persistent cuckoo could be heard throwing open a small
shutter and stridently announcing his version of the time.
It was some time after midnight that Pendleton began to yawn. Then
Ashton-Kirk said:
"Open some of those blankets, Pen, and lie down. There is no need of
two of us watching to-night; I scarcely expect anything to happen."
Pendleton did not expect anything, either, but he said:
"All right, I will, if you'll wake me in a few hours and let me take a
turn at it."
Ashton-Kirk agreed. Pendleton stretched himself upon the sofa, and
soon his deep breathing told that he was asleep. As the night drew on,
the solitary watcher grew chilled in the unheated rooms and huddled
himself into another blanket; but he sat near the door leading to the
hall, which was slightly ajar; and though his eyes closed sometimes in
weariness, he never lost a sound in the street or a tick of one of the
clocks.
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