Their white faces and their black
numbers speak in the dark of the empty stores. "Tick-tock, Time never
sleeps. Time keeps moving the hands of the city's clocks around and
around."
Alas, when clocks disagree what hope is there for less methodical
mechanisms, particularly such humpty-dumpty mechanisms as tick away inside
the owners of clocks? The newspaper man must sigh. These clocks in the
windows of the empty stores along Sheffield Avenue seem to be arguing.
They present their arguments calmly, like meticulous professors. They say:
"Eight minutes of two. Three minutes of two. Two. Four minutes after two.
Ten minutes after two."
Thus the confusions of the day persist even after the darkness has swept
the streets clean of people. There being nobody else to dispute, the
clocks take it up and dispute the hour among themselves.
The newspaper man pauses in front of one half-hidden clock. It says "Six."
Obviously here is a clock not running. Its hands have stopped and it no
longer ticks. But, thinks the newspaper man, it is not to be despised for
that. At least it is the only clock in the neighborhood that achieves
perfect accuracy. Twice a day while all the other clocks in the street are
disputing and arguing, this particular clock says "Six" and of all the
clocks it alone is precisely accurate.
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