The Clock by James Lincoln Collier Page B

when I was supposed to be home from the mill in the evenings. I wasn’t going to have much of a chance to wait around after the mill closed and spy on Mr. Hoggart.
    Where was he hiding the wool? How did he carry it out of the mill without being seen? When did he do it? Then I remembered something that Tom Thrush had said, about Mr. Hoggart not going to church on Sunday with the boys. What was that all about? I bided my time, and a couple of days later, just after the noon bell rang and Tom was due to come along with our dinnertime tea, I slipped out of the slubbing room, down the stairs, and met Tom just as he was about to come up.
    â€œTom, what was that you said about Mr. Hoggart ducking out of church every Sunday?”
    â€œOh, he ducks out all right, regular as clockwork. He sees the boys in, and stands in the back until everybody’s settled down. Then he slips out and don’t turn up again until service is near finished.”
    I dropped my voice down a little. “Tom, I think I’ve got a way to get Mr. Hoggart.”
    He squinted his eyes at me. “I’m going to kill him when I get the chance.”
    â€œYou don’t have to do that,” I said. “He’s stealing wool out of the mill. If we catch him at it, it’ll go hard on him.”
    He stared at me. “How do you know that?”
    â€œI know. He comes over here on Sunday when the boys are in church and steals it.”
    â€œYou sure?”
    â€œSure as I can be. We have to catch him at it, though.”
    He thought about that. “If you already know it, why do we have to catch him at it?”
    â€œWe have to prove it. We have to find out where he takes it, so we can show Colonel Humphreys. He’s bound to discharge Mr. Hoggart when he finds out. He might even go to jail.”
    Tom smiled. “Might he?”
    â€œHe probably would. But we have to catch him first. Somebody’s got to slip in here one Sunday and spy on him.”
    Tom stopped smiling, and frowned.
    â€œNow, what darn fool do you suppose is goin’ to take a risk like that?”
    â€œI thought you said you’d like to kill him.”
    â€œKillin’ is one thing. Spyin’ on him when he’s alive and could kick your ribs in is another.”
    â€œI didn’t think you were such a coward,” I said.
    He stopped sweeping and blinked at me. Then he said, “If you was to do it, how would you do it?”
    â€œWhy, duck behind a tree when Mr. Hoggart herded the boys off for church service, the way you always do. Then slip up here into the mill and watch to see if he comes up to the carding room with a sack. That’s easy enough, isn’t it?”
    â€œYou think he’d go to jail?”
    â€œHe might,” I said.
    Tom began to whistle. Then he went on up the stairs with the tea bucket, and I went on up after him. Well, I didn’t know if he’d do it, or wouldn’t do it. He wasn’t going to promise anything. I’d just have to wait to find out.
    I didn’t have a chance to talk to Robert until Sunday service. Mr. Hoggart was keeping him busy packing yarn and loading it to be shipped out, and I never saw Robert until Sunday. But on Sunday I told him.
    We had two services, a morning service and an afternoon one. Between them we had a big Sunday dinner. All of us who had to travel some distance carried big dinner baskets and ate together.
    During the good weather we generally ate Sunday dinner outside, sitting under trees, or on the stone walls. But now it had come late fall, and the air was getting chill, we ate in the carriage shed on the trestle tables the men would set up after the morning service. The women would all bring food from home—pieces of roast pork, big pots of baked beans, johnnycake, fried squash, jellies, pickles. It was mighty pleasant sitting down to dinner with so many together in that big shed, the chickens pecking around for bits of corn bread