Wimsey, his eye upon the ropes and his ear pricked for the treble’s shrill tongue speaking at lead, had little attention to give to anything but his task. He was dimly conscious of old Hezekiah, moving with the smooth rhythm of a machine, bowing his ancient back very slightly at each pull to bring Tailor Paul’s great weight over, and of Wally Pratt, his face anxiously contorted and his lips moving in the effort to keep his intricate course in mind. Wally’s bell was moving down now towards his own, dodging Number Six and passing her, dodging Number Seven and passing her, passing Number Five, striking her two blows at lead, working up again, while the treble came down to take her place and make her last snapping lead with Sabaoth. One blow in seconds place and one at lead, and Sabaoth, released from the monotony of the slow hunt, ran out merrily into her plain hunting course. High in the air above them the cock upon the weathervane stared out over the snow and watched the pinnacles of the tower swing to and fro with a slowly widening sweep as the tall stalk of stone gathered momentum and rocked like a windblown tree beneath his golden feet.
The congregation streamed out from the porch, their lanterns and torches flitting away into the whirling storm like sparks tossed from a bonfire. The Rector, pulling off surplice and stole, climbed in his cassock to the ringing-chamber and-sat down upon the bench, ready to give help and counsel. The clock’s chimes came faintly through the voices of the bells. At the end of the first hour the Rector took the rope from the hand of the agitated Wally and released him for an interval of rest and refreshment. A soft glugging sound proclaimed that Mr. Donnington’s “usual” was going where it would do most good. Wimsey, relieved at the end of the third hour, found Mrs. Venables seated among the pewter pots, with Bunter in respectful attendance beside her.
“I do hope,” said Mrs. Venables, “that you are not feeling exhausted.”
“Far from it; only rather dry.” Wimsey remedied this condition without further apology, and asked how the peal sounded.
“Beautiful!” said Mrs. Venables, loyally. She did not really care for bell-music, and felt sleepy; but the Rector would have felt hurt if she had withdrawn her sympathetic presence.
“It’s surprising, isn’t it?” she added, “how soft and mellow it sounds in here. But of course there’s another floor between us and the bell-chamber.” She yawned desperately. The bells rang on. Wimsey, knowing that the Rector was well set for the next quarter of an hour, was seized with a fancy to listen to the peal from outside. He slipped down the winding stair and groped his way through the south porch. As he emerged into the night, the clamour of the bells smote on his ears like a blow. The snow was falling less heavily now. He turned to his right, knowing that it is unlucky to walk about a church widdershins, and followed the path close beneath the wall till he found himself standing by the west door. Sheltered by the towering bulk of the masonry, he lit a sacrilegious cigarette, and, thus fortified, turned right again. Beyond the foot of the tower, the pathway ended, and he stumbled among grass and tombstones for the whole length of the aisle, which, on this side, was prolonged to the extreme east end of the church. Midway between the last two buttresses on the north side he came upon a path leading to a small door; this he tried, but found it locked, and so passed on, encountering the full violence of the wind as he rounded the east end. Pausing a moment to get his breath, he looked out over the Fen. All was darkness, except for a dim stationary light which might have been shining from some cottage window. Wimsey reckoned that the cottage must lie somewhere along the solitary road by which they had reached the Rectory, and wondered why anybody should be awake at three o’clock on New Year’s morning. But the night was bitter and he was wanted back at his job. He completed his circuit, re-entered by the south porch and returned to the belfry. The Rector resigned the rope to him, warning him that he had now to make his two blows behind and not to forget to dodge back into eighth’s place before hunting down.
At six o’clock, the ringers were all in pretty good case. Wally Pratt’s cow-lick had fallen into his eyes, and he was sweating freely, but was still moving well within himself. The blacksmith was fresh and cheerful, and looked ready to go on till next Christmas. The publican was grim but determined. Most unperturbed of all was the aged Hezekiah, working grandly as though he were part and parcel of his rope, and calling his bobs without a tremor in his clear old voice.
At a quarter to eight the Rector left them to prepare for his early service. The beer in the jug had sunk to low tide and Wally Pratt, with an hour and a half to go, was beginning to look a little strained. Through the southern window a faint reflection of the morning light came, glimmering frail and blue.
At ten minutes past nine the Rector was back in the belfry, standing watch in hand with a beaming smile on his face.
At thirteen minutes past nine the treble came shrilling triumphantly into her last lead. Tin tan din dan bim bam bom bo.
Their long courses ended, the bells came faultlessly back into rounds, and the ringers stood.
“Magnificent, lads, magnificent!” cried Mr. Venables. “You’ve done it, and it couldn’t have been better done.”
“Eh!” admitted Mr. Lavender, “it was none so bad.” A slow toothless grin overspread his countenance. “Yes, we done it. How did it sound from down below, sir?”
“Fine,” said the Rector. “As firm and true as any ringing I have ever heard. Now you must all be wanting your breakfasts. It’s all ready for you at the Rectory. Well now, Wally, you can call yourself a real ringer now, can’t you? You came through it with very great credit — didn’t he, Hezekiah?”
“Fair to middlin’,” said Mr. Lavender, grudgingly. “But you takes too much out o’ yourself, Wally. You’ve no call to be gettin’ yourself all of a muck o’ sweat that way. Still, you ain’t made no mistakes, an’ that’s something, but I see you a mumblin’ and countin’ to yourself all the time. If I’ve telled yew once I’ve tolled yew a hundred times to keep your eye on the ropes and then you don’t need—”
“There, there!” said the Rector. “Never mind, Wally, you did very well indeed. Where’s Lord Peter — Oh! there you are. I’m sure we owe you a great deal. Not too fatigued, I hope?”
“No, no,” said Wimsey, extricating himself from the congratulatory handshakes of his companions. He felt, in fact, exhausted to dropping-point. He had not rung a long peal for years, and the effort of keeping alert for so many hours had produced an almost intolerable desire to tumble down in a corner and go to sleep. “I — ah — oh — I’m perfectly all right.”