Charley's practical joke was usually good
for a laugh when a city feller made a rest stop;
but it also aroused heavenly concern and began—
The Battle of the Bells
By Jerome Bixby
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
September 1954
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It would happen maybe once or twice a week—never much more. Becausethings had to be just right.
For example, it had to be daytime for it to work. At night, nobody waslikely to notice the chain hanging down with the handle on the end ofit.
And naturally the victims had to be city folk. Had to be used to justreaching up and grabbing and pulling without a thought. Because whenyou stop to think about it, a chain like that in a place like that isabout the most unlikely thing in the world.
But it worked—it worked often enough to bring grins to the faces ofany men who were around at the time, and enough to make the town womensometimes a little cool toward Charley Mason when they went in to buythings at his store. Because it was strictly a man's joke, and he wasthe man.
Owensville is a small town in western Pennsylvania. It sits low in oneend of a green-sided valley, just a few frame houses and stores strungalong a main street ... and that main street is on the one and onlyroad that leads through the valley: a road that all the maps show to bea convenient and dependable connection between the Penn Turnpike andseveral other major routes, should you be heading south.
So a lot of people drive through Owensville every week—upwards of twohundred or so. And there's always one or two of them in the mood tospend a little time in a restroom—the last Howard Johnson's is twentymiles back along the Turnpike, and the road down into the valley is abumpy one besides, and you know what that does to your innards.
So they come driving around the bend under the trees and their carwheels thump across the old wooden bridge across Miller's Creek—andonce in a while one of them would pull off the road into the yardbeside Charley Mason's General Store because they'd spot hiscrescent-doored outhouse standing there. Charley always kept it paintedup so it'd be easier to see—clean white with a red roof—and overthe door he'd lettered, big enough to see from the bridge, PUBLICRESTROOM.
Then somebody'd get out of the car and go in, and a few minutes laterthe chain that came up through the roof would yank down as whoever wasinside reached up and pulled the handle.
And then the big old cowbell on the roof—the biggest and noisiestCharley'd been able to find—would dance around in the mounting he'dmade out of an angle-iron, and go Blongle, blongle, blok!
After a minute the door'd open and the city folk would come out,looking puzzled and kind of sneaky. They'd give a glance up at the roofand see the cowbell mounted there. Some of them might grin at the waythey'd been had. But mostly they'd get into their car and drive offmaybe a little faster'n they would've ordinarily.
If it was a woman, it was five times as funny. Because some of theolder men were always sitting around on the porch of Charley's storeplaying pinochle, or lounging down by the bridge just talking, andwhen the woman would come out they'd all grin at her and those who hadmustaches might twiddle them a bit, and she'd get redder'n a bushel oftomatoes.
Women drove off faster'n anybody, usually.
Som