Bill Jarvis took over our village news agency at time of life when most of us only want to relax. He just thought he would like something but not too much to do, and the news agency was ready-made. The business produced little enough for him, but then Bill was a chap who only wanted the simplicity and order and regularity of the job. He had been a long-serving sailor, and all his life had done everything by the clock.
Every day he opened his shop at six a.m to catch the early trade; the papers arrived on his door-step before that. Many of Bill's customers were city workers, and the shop was convenient for the station. Business was tailing off by ten o'clock, so at eleven sharp Bill closed for lunch. It was hard luck on anybody who wanted a paper or magazine in the afternoon, for most likely Bill would be down on the river bank, fishing, and his nearest competitor was five kilometres away. Some time in the afternoon, the evening papers landed on the door-mat, and at four o'clock Bill reopened. The evening rush lasted till seven, and it was worthwhile.
He lived in a flat above the shop, alone. Except in very bad weather, you always knew where to find him in the afternoons, as I have said. Once, on a sunny afternoon, I walked home along the river bank from a shopping trip to the village. By my watch it was three minutes past four, so I was astonished to see Bill sitting there on his little chair with a line in the water. He had no luck, I could see, but he was making no effort to move.
"What's wrong, Bill?" I called out from the path. For answer, he put a hand inside his jacket and took out a big, golden object. For a moment I had no idea what it could be, and then it suddenly went off with a noise like a fire engine. Stopping the bell, Bill held the thing up and called back: "Ten to four, you see, and this is dead right." He stood up then and began to wind in his line. I had never known anyone carry a brass alarm clock round with him or her before.