Part 12 (1/2)
”We might go for a walk along the beach. My friends and I have an hour off before the tearoom gets busy again.”
”Fine,” Mr. Hendrick agreed with enthusiasm. ”Come along, all of you.”
They walked a short distance down the sh.o.r.e, then the girls led the elderly man to a half-rotted log on which he could sit.
”To make a long story short, I've been interested in bells all my life,” he began. ”So was my father and his father before him. Know anything about bells?”
”Only that they ring.” Bess giggled.
”No two ring alike. Some are high-pitched, some low, some have beautiful tone quality, and others are so harsh they insult your ears. Bells are with us from the cradle to the grave; they rejoice in our victories and toll our sorrows. They have enriched historical moments, colored romance, and struck terror in the hearts of the superst.i.tious!
”My father was a bell maker and so was my grandfather,” A. H. resumed proudly. ”They learned the art in Europe where they had their foundry. Know how to make a big bell?”
Nancy replied that she had only a vague idea.
”First you make a mold, and that takes a good many weeks if the bell is to be a perfect one. Then you pour in the hot, liquid metal. You have to be very careful. If the mold is not properly constructed, or you don't wait until the metal sets properly, the bell will crack when you take it out. A large bell must be cooled for a week or two before it can be removed.”
”Tell us about American bells,” Nancy urged, wis.h.i.+ng to draw Mr. Hendrick into revealing more about the mystery.
”The first bell foundry in this country was established by the Hanks family, ancestors of Abraham Lincoln on his mother's side,” Mr. Hendrick related. ”Then there was Paul Revere. After the Revolution, he built a furnace in Boston and cast small bells. He also made large ones for churches. During his lifetime he cast nigh up to two hundred bells.”
”What became of them?” Nancy asked.
”Ah! There lies the story. Fifty were destroyed by fire, one hangs in King's Chapel, Boston, but most of them are scattered over the country, and the folks that own 'em probably don't realize what a treasure they possess.”
”Do you collect bells?” Bess inquired.
”Yes, I do. I've toured the country up and down looking for them. Own maybe fifty bells of all types and construction. I'm always searching for Paul Revere bells but right now I'm also hoping to locate another type.”
”The x.x.x bell with embedded jewels?” Nancy asked softly.
A. H. nodded. ”That paper I lost was found in my father's effects and was written by my grandfather. The bell was stolen from his foundry. I've spent eight years searching for that bell.”
”And you haven't discovered any clues?” asked George.
”I found some, but nothing came of them. My search has been interesting, though. I've collected other valuable bells, and I've met a lot of nice folks. To get them to talk, I tell them about my hunt for Paul Revere bells. Then they usually show me all the bells on the premises, most of which are worthless.”
”There's one bell I wonder if you have seen,” Nancy said thoughtfully. ”According to some people around here, it hangs somewhere deep within Bald Head Cave.”
”Oh, I heard that story when I first came here,” the man answered. ”Nothing to it.”
”Why do you say that?”
”Because I went there and looked around.”
”And you didn't hear the bell?”
”No bell rang and no ghost appeared to warn me.” A. H. chuckled. ”It's just one of those superst.i.tious tales.”