Clearlytheycouldwantnothingbutastringentpoliceman。
MrArthurClennamsatinthewindowofthecoffee-houseonLudgateHill，countingoneoftheneighbouringbells，makingsentencesandburdensofsongsoutofitinspiteofhimself，andwonderinghowmanysickpeopleitmightbethedeathofinthecourseoftheyear。Asthehourapproached，itschangesofmeasuremadeitmoreandmoreexasperating。Atthequarter，itwentoffintoaconditionofdeadly-livelyimportunity，urgingthepopulaceinavolublemannertoCometochurch，Cometochurch，Cometochurch!
Atthetenminutes，itbecameawarethatthecongregationwouldbescanty，andslowlyhammeredoutinlowspirits，TheyWON’Tcome，theyWON’Tcome，theyWON’Tcome!Atthefiveminutes，itabandonedhope，andshookeveryhouseintheneighbourhoodforthreehundredseconds，withonedismalswingpersecond，asagroanofdespair。
’ThankHeaven!’saidClennam，whenthehourstruck，andthebellstopped。
ButitssoundhadrevivedalongtrainofmiserableSundays，andtheprocessionwouldnotstopwiththebell，butcontinuedtomarchon。’Heavenforgiveme，’saidhe，’andthosewhotrainedme。HowIhavehatedthisday!’