An original fiction passage set in the nineteenth century.

The clock stood in the shop window, a cloth draped over its top while its brass face remained exposed to the street. Mr Bell had polished it until the hands seemed to float above the dial. When the clock stopped, he did not disturb the cloth. He watched the second hand remain between two marks while his apprentice waited beside the bench.

“The spring is sound,” the boy said. Mr Bell gave no answer. He removed the clock from the window and set it among the tools. For an hour he examined each wheel, then each pin. The shop grew dim; the street outside emptied. At last he placed a narrow strip of paper beside the smallest wheel. It trembled when the mechanism moved.

Mr Bell drew the cloth down over the clock’s face. “Not for the window,” he said. The apprentice began to gather the tools, but Mr Bell stopped him. He took up the strip of paper and marked its edge with a fine line. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we shall know exactly where it catches.”