Farewell Summer ~ Ray Bradbury - Marimarister

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It was getting late and they were still up in the clock tower, nine boys working and
cleaning out the firecracker dust and bits of burnt paper. It made a neat little pile outside the
door.
It was a hot evening and all the boys were perspiring and talking under their breath and
wishing they were somewhere else, almost wishing they were in school, which would be better
than this.
When Doug looked out the clock tower window, he could see Grandpa standing down
below, looking up, very quietly.
When Grandpa saw Doug looking down, he nodded at him and gave him the merest wave
with the stub of his cigar.
Finally the last twilight was gone and full darkness descended and the janitor came in.
There was lubricant to be put on the big cog and wheels of the clock. The boys watched with a
mixture of fascination and fear. Here was their nemesis, which they thought they‘d defeated,
being brought back to life. And, they‘d helped. In the weak light from a naked ceiling bulb they
watched as the janitor wound up the great spring and stood back. There was a rasping shudder
from deep within the great clock‘s innards, and as if afflicted, the boys moved away, shivering.
The big clock began to tick and the boys knew it wouldn‘t be long till the hour would
strike, so they backed off and fled out the door, down the stairs, with Doug following and Tom
leading the way.
The mob met Grandpa in the middle of the courthouse lawn and he gave each of them a
pat on the head or the shoulder. Then the other boys ran to their homes, leaving Tom and Doug
and Grandpa to walk a block to the corner where the United Cigar Store still stood open because
it was Saturday night.
The last of the Saturday night strollers were starting to drift home and Grandpa picked
out the finest cigar he could find, cut it, and lit it from the eternal flame that stood on the cigar
store counter. He puffed contentedly and looked with quiet satisfaction upon his two grandsons.
―Well done, boys,‖ he said. ―Well done.‖
Then the sound that they didn‘t want to hear came.
The great clock was clearing its throat in the tower and struck its first note.
Bong!