The bed was
made--which was out of the ordinary, for Jennie Brice never made a
bed--but made the way a man makes one, with the blankets wrinkled and
crooked beneath, and the white counterpane pulled smoothly over the
top, showing every lump beneath. I showed Mr. Holcombe the splasher,
dotted with ink as usual.
"I'll take it off and soak it in milk," I said. "It's his fountain
pen; when the ink doesn't run, he shakes it, and--"
"Where's the clock?" said Mr. Holcombe, stopping in front of the
mantel with his note-book in his hand.
"The clock?"
I turned and looked. My onyx clock was gone from the mantel-shelf.
Perhaps it seems strange, but from the moment I missed that clock my
rage at Mr. Ladley increased to a fury. It was all I had had left of
my former gentility. When times were hard and I got behind with the
rent, as happened now and then, more than once I'd been tempted to
sell the clock, or to pawn it. But I had never done it. Its ticking
had kept me company on many a lonely night, and its elegance had
helped me to keep my pride and to retain the respect of my neighbors.
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