Hesitantly, as though he, too, was changing his mind, Jud gave her the parcel and fifteen cents. “I’ll give you the other dime soon as you’re back.”
She shook her head obstinately. “No. I want it now. How do I know you’ll really wait for me?”
Jud could cheerfully have thrashed her. But he was almost in a panic. He couldn’t stand here and argue with the little fool. The minutes were slipping by.
“All right. Here’s the other dime. Now hurry! It’s pretty near six-thirty. You gotta get the clock there by seven sharp. And hang onto this, don’t drop it!”
“Why?”
Jud nearly yelled, “It’s the guy’s birthday and he won’t be home tonight, see? He’s gotta have this by seven o’clock! Run along, now, hurry! It’s liable to get busted if you drop it!”
She went skipping down the path. Jud watched, his face working, till she was out of sight around a bend. He rubbed the back of his fist tightly across the stubble on his chin. Then he faded into the woods.
He took off the red sweater, stuffed it in the empty shoebox, and rolled it up in the newspapers. The bundle looked the same as before. He put his battered brown hat on again.
A few minutes later, he strode down the path with the bundle under his arm. He savagely kicked a couple of loose stones out of his way. When he reached the sidewalk, he rolled a cigarette and stuck it in a corner of his mouth. It dribbled sparks as he sauntered homeward.
The two dimes and nickel made the little girl’s palm sweat. After a while, she put a dime and a nickel in a hand-kerchief, made a ball out of it, and pushed it down in the pocket of her jumper suit. She kept the other dime in her hand.
She trudged along the path at the base of the hill. After the equivalent of a couple of long blocks, the hill came to an end. The field across the road also ended. In the near corner a group of boys was playing softball.
By the time she came back this way, it would be getting dark and the game would be over. It was more fun watching a game than carrying a funny old package that went:
Tick, tock.
Anyway, she had only seven or eight more blocks to go, and it wouldn’t take long to get there. She could easily make it by seven o’clock. And what if she was a few minutes late? She couldn’t see that it made any difference if the man got his darn old clock at seven or whenever, so long as he got it. The thing was, she couldn’t stay out late. But she’d be home before dark. There was plenty of time.
She crossed the road and dawdled, watching the game. She knew several of the boys. They yelled at her and she talked back fliply. Other boys, a few girls, and a couple of men watched the game They were sitting along a bench made of weather-stained two by fours.
They moved over to make room for her. She sat holding the package in her lap, the package with a voice that whispered ever so faintly:
Tick, tock.
It was a funny kind of birthday present to give, she thought. She took the package and jiggled it against her ear, but it didn’t rattle. It must be a pretty big clock. An alarm clock, maybe. Then she put the package back in her lap and forgot about it. Her thoughts strayed to the game.
Jimmy Roth was at the plate, jumping and yelling at the pitcher. The pitcher threw the ball underhand and Jimmy swung with all his might. Wham! The ball flew out over the infield, dropped between left and center, and went bounding away with both fielders hot after it.
Everybody was yelling at everybody else, somebody on second came tearing home, and Jimmy scooted around the bases so fast that he slipped and fell at third. The ball sailed in toward home plate. Jimmy picked himself up and raced for the bag. The ball beat him, but the catcher couldn’t hold on to it. Jimmy crossed the plate with a home run as the ball bounced off the catcher’s glove and spurted toward the bench.
It was lots of fun. The side went down.
“What’s the score?” the little girl asked a man next to her.
“Sixteen to twelve.”
“What inning?”
“Last of the fourth.”
The game went on, and grew more exciting. The other side tied it up at sixteen to sixteen in the next half-inning.
The man beside her started to leave, and jostled her in doing so. The package slid off her lap. She grabbed for it. It teetered on her knees, almost dropping to the ground before her fingers got hold of the string.
She held the package against her ear, but the jiggling didn’t seem to have hurt it any. The voice inside still murmured:
Tick, tock.
She jumped to her feet. Absorbed in watching the game, she had forgotten all about delivering the package.
“What time is it, mister?” she asked the man who was moving away.
He looked at a wrist watch. “Quarter of seven.”
She hurried off, half skipping, half running, for a couple of blocks before she slowed down. Seven o’clock, seven o’clock, kept repeating in her head. That was when he had told her she must deliver the package. No, he had said to deliver it before seven. Before seven. Ring the bell and leave it before seven. But running made her lose her breath. She was panting. Why hurry? Why run your legs off for a darn old clock? A clock that couldn’t say anything but:
Tick, tock.
She came to a small candy store and looked in the window longingly. Licorice sticks, taffy, horehound, chewing gum, candy bars, chocolates, caramels, mint wafers, all day suckers, jelly drops, lozenges, marshmallows, crackerjack, and other sweets lay temptingly spread out. The dime itched her palm moistly. What to buy? Five cents worth of mixed candy and a box of cracker jack? Or an all day sucker and a vanilla ice cream cone? Or a big double cone, chocolate and strawberry?
A swinging movement caught her gaze. Her eyes strayed to a wall clock with a pendulum. The hands stood at twelve minutes of seven. Every time the pendulum swung, she fancied she could hear it, and such a big clock would make a bigger noise than the clock she was carrying, a great big:
TICK, TOCK.
Twelve minutes to seven. Six blocks to go. It really hadn’t ought to take more than ten minutes. But it would be longer, it would be after seven, if she stopped now and went in the store to buy a double ice cream cone, chocolate and strawberry.
She reluctantly turned away from the windowful of candies. Her nose felt funny where she had held it against the glass. She rubbed it until the tingle went away.
A block farther, she reached a corner drugstore. The window had another one of those big clocks with a pendulum. The hand stood between ten and nine minutes of seven. She guessed she’d better hurry a little faster, or she wouldn’t quite make it.
Before she could start running, a boy caught up with her and began to pass her, walking at a brisk, crisp clip. He was taller than she, and perhaps a year older. His tousled head sprouted from a scrawny neck. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets so that his elbows flapped as he moved. His stubby nose hung like a round little marble over his short upper lip. It gave his face a nasty look as though he had been caught in the act of stealing pennies from a playmate. She vaguely remembered seeing him on the bench at the ball game.
He looked at the little girl, and slowed up beside her. “Whatcher name?”
There was no answer, except that she hurried more.
“Watcher name?” He kept pace with her.
“You leave me alone!”
“Watcher hurry? You ain’t scared or nothin’, are you?”
She clenched the package tighter under her arm. She could almost feel its faint sound of:
Tick, tock.
The dime slid around in her damp palm. She wedged it between thumb and forefinger. “I’m not scared of you.”
“Watcha scared of then, ’fraidy cat?”