"They hevn't coomed yet, hev they?" we heard the sexton's son say, as he
peeped over at our pond.
"Noa," was the reply. "It's not gone one yet."
"It's gone one by t' church. I yeard it as we was coming up t' lane."
"T' church clock's always hafe-an-hour fasst, thee knows."
"It isn't!"
"It is."
"T' church clock's t' one to go by, anyhow," the sexton's son
maintained.
His friend guffawed aloud.
"And it's a reight 'un to go by too, my sakes! when thee feyther shifts
t' time back'ards and for'ards every Sunday morning to suit hissen."
"To suit hissen! To suit t' ringers, ye mean!" said the sexton's son.
"What's thou to do wi' t' ringers?" was the reply, enforced apparently
by a punch in the back, and the two lads came cuffing and struggling up
the field, much to my alarm, but fortunately they were too busy to
notice us.
Meanwhile, the rest had not been idle at the wall. Jem had climbed on
the cart, and peeping through a brick hole he could see that they had
with some difficulty disengaged a very heavy stone. As we were turning
our heads to watch the two lads fighting near our hiding-place, we heard
the stone strike with a heavy thud upon the rotten ice below, and it was
echoed by a groan of satisfaction from above.
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