SAVED BY THE CLOCK.

Cromwell Argus, Volume LXII, Issue 3211, 9 May 1932, Page 7

SAVED BY THE CLOCK.

THE JUDGE'S STORY. Old Judge Lawson had been an intimate friend of my father’s, consequently he invariably welcomed me royally on the rare occasions when I happened to visit him. When, motoring through the little Worcestershire village of Wickley, I chanced to drop in unexpectedly, he was overjoyed to see me and Insisted upon my staying the night. My time being my own for the next few days, I accepted his invitation, and thus it was that I found myself smoking one of his excellent cigars after dinner one early winter evening, chatting of this and that to the accompanying roar of a bright coal fire. Not having seen him since his retirement, I naturally opened up the conversation by inquiring how his unaccustomed idleness suited him, and if time hung heavily on his hands now that he had put behind him the cares and worries that go with the position of administrator of the law of the land. “I’m not as idle as you might think,” he said, settling himself comfortably in his favorite brown-hide easy. “There’s the garden, you know. Things were in a pretty state, I can tell you, when I first moved in here, and I found plenty to do. I put in a few days haymaking, too, when our so-called summer permitted it, just giving Mr. Jackson a hand when I felt like it.” “I see,” I remarked. “But both gardening and hay-making are impossible in the winter. You’ll be bored stiff, I should imagine. Seems to be nothing doing in Wickley.” “I shall be busy enough, I can tell you. I’m tackling a new hobby clocks, I’ve a liberal amount of money to spend in adding to my collection. I already have a fairly extensive one, and I’m going in for it thoroughly. Writing a book when I’ve gathered enough data. ‘Clocks Through the Ages,’ or something like that.” “Clocks, eh? More original than stamps or china, anyhow. Fairly extensive, you say. I wouldn’t mind having a look round if you’d care ” He jumped up with the enthusiasm wnich invariably surges up in any collector when he finds a willing and interested individual anxious to view his collection. “Certainly! Certainly! If you’re interested —why, of course!” He threw his cigar butt into the fire and rose. Never inclined to be reticent, the old Judge at once became quite garrulous, and led me round the house like a born showman. He introduced me to clocks of all descriptions —grandfather clocks, grandmother clocks, cuckoo clocks, Scottish clocks, ships’ chronometers, old water clocks, and a host of fabric-sided chiming clocks. “They all keep good time, though they aren’t all going,” he said apologetically. “I’m too lazy to keep them all wound up.” We finally halted before a fine old grandfather clock in the library. “This old chap is my favorite. I’m very grateful to him. Really in his debt, I am!” “In what way?” I queried. How anyone could possibly be indebted to a clock frankly mystified me. “It’s not a long story. Like to hear it?” “Rather!” “Let’s get back to the fire, then.” When we were again comfortably seated, with drinks within easy reach, he began:— “In the old days I tried a good many men on my circuit. Some were acquitted, but the great majority I have had to sentence. One man, a felon, if ever there Was one, known to the police as Rob Garry, came before me for trial on a series of charges of robbery with violence, burglary, and so on. He was a villain of the deepest dye—a born criminal. Previous convictions had taught him nothing. He had been offered really good opportunities had he only reformed, but he preferred to remain a menace to civilisation, and as such I had no alternative in this case uut to impose the maximum to keep him out of the society of decent people for as long as possible. I gave him seven years, and he threatened me from the dock before they took him away. Threatened to kill me when he got out. Said he’d get me. Cursed me in foul language, and glared at me with eyes that expressed only intense, bitter hatred. Of course, I paid no attention to this example of a criminal’s natural vindictiveness, and in time forgot all about the unfortunate incident. But Rob Garry didn’t. The years went by. I duly retired and came to live here.” “And now we come to the clock,” I put in. “Shortly, very soon,” returned the old Judge, and resumed. “One night I was sitting reading in the library. I suppose I must have dozed. As you know, we never draw the curtains at night—nobody does in the country. I suppose Rob Garry must have been watching me for some time, and made his entrance (an easy job for him) when I went to sleep. Anyhow, I was awakened by his rasping voice. “‘Don’t move!’ he commanded. “I opened my eyes. At first I thought I was dreaming. There, before me, with a levelled revolver in hand, was Rob Garry. I didn’t recognise him immediately, you understand, but In a few seconds ft all came back to me — the scene in court, the terrible threat from the dock. This was the man I had sentenced eight years ago, but much older, harder, more bitter, more savage. I was merely surprised at first —then I confess I felt afraid. “I was alone with a would-be murderer! The day girl had gone home, and it was the housekeeper’s night out —she had gone to the theatre in Worcester. I suppose Garry knew this, too. If I had not remembered his threat of eight years ago, his next words would have reminded me of it. He said, quite

slowly and distinctly: Tm going to kill you!’ “I felt terribly helpless and thought rapidly, wracking my brains in despair for something—anything—to save myself, for I did not want to die. That he meant what he said was only too obvious. There was a paper weight on the table not a yard from my hand, but I knew that any movement on my part would be my last. The man’s eyes gleamed with primitive hate, mingled with a fiendish enjoyment he was deriving from torturing me by lingering over the prelude to that one decisive action on his part which would mean the end of me—the pulling of the trigger. “The suspense was horrible. He said nothing. He just kept his eyes riveted on mine, and snarled —snarled like a lion about to spring. It was awful. Death was a thousand times better than waiting for the moment of its coming. “ ‘Shoot, you devil!’ I cried. ‘Shoot, and get it over!’ “His finger tightened on the trigger. It was the end. I wanted to close my eyes, but could not. I held rny breath. Then—without the slightest warning—terribly loud in the stillness of the house —a terrific report. Bang! Like that! “Garry jumped and turned round. I thought he had fired, but realised immediately after that the report, whatever it was, had not come from his gun, and that he was even more taken aback than I was. He had turned round, and that was enough for me. Luckily, I recovered from the shock before he did. I snatched up the paper weight, and, even as he sensed his clanger and turned again to fire at me, kicked the revolver out of his hand and brought the paper weight down with all my force on the top' of his skull He fell senseless.” “But the clock,” I said. “Where does the clock come in?” “I’m coming to-that, now. I 'phoned for the police, picking up the man’s revolver in case he came round before they arrived. He didn’t though. After he had been yanked off to the cells, I discovered what had saved me. Theold grandfather clock had stopped at 10.10, although I had only wound him up that very morning. I found the catgut holding one of the weights had become rotten and snapped and let the solid iron cylinder drop straight to the bottom of the casing with a terrific crash.” “And that was the report you heard?” “That was the report. And if ever you write a story on what I’ve just told you, you can call It ‘Saved by the Clock.’ ”