Striking the Bell

Dashed through the door flap—fast! Cold night snapped shut behind me. Skittered across bare timber into the deep gloom of the study alcove. Safe shadows. Right on the lower ledge of the writing desk sat an old brass service bell—domed shell, coiled spring, polished strike-button on top! Pure mechanism. One sudden vault—reared back and slammed the blunt curve of my hook straight down onto the brass plunger! CLANG-DING-G-G! The internal striker bit the casing with a fierce, vibrating shriek that hummed straight through my metal joints. Jolted backward, scrambled flat beneath the kneehole overhang, and locked my eye on the singing bell. Message delivered.