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Updated: June 2, 2025
So Quasimodo was the ringer of the chimes of Notre-Dame. In the course of time there had been formed a certain peculiarly intimate bond which united the ringer to the church.
He'd be a beautiful animal if he was dolled up like the others," the book-maker, Joe, declared. "Got racing plates on to-day, and that cholo kid sits him like he intended to ride him," his companion added. "Joe, I have a suspicion that nag is a ringer. He looks like a champion." "If he wins we'll know he's a ringer," Joe replied complacently. "We'll register a protest at once.
New York alone was silent because its delegates had not been instructed as to their vote, but New York, too, soon fell into line. It was a momentous occasion and was understood to be such. The vote seems to have been reached in the late afternoon. Anxious citizens were waiting in the streets. There was a bell in the State House, and an old ringer waited there for the signal.
"'Jeff, goes on Andy, 'this is the exact counterpart of Scudder's carving. It's absolutely a dead ringer for it. He'll pay $2,000 for it as quick as he'd tuck a napkin under his chin. And why shouldn't it be the genuine other one, anyhow, that the old gypsy whittled out? "'Why not, indeed? says I. 'And how shall we go about compelling him to make a voluntary purchase of it?
He enjoyed the feeling which he was exciting, and paraded the town serene and happy all day; but the young fellows set a tailor to work that night, and when Tom started out on his parade next morning, he found the old deformed Negro bell ringer straddling along in his wake tricked out in a flamboyant curtain-calico exaggeration of his finery, and imitating his fancy Eastern graces as well as he could.
Never even ast him his name," answered Bud. "Well, I do. That's ole 'Cap' Norris. He's a hoss sharp fer fair. He an' that boy don't do nothin' but ride the country with that magpie hoss, pickin' up races at cow camps an' ranches an' in towns. That hoss o' hisn is a 'ringer. His real name is Idlewild, an' he's a perfessional race hoss. Boy, yer stung!"
Every seven and a half minutes sounded a few jangling sweet notes, and thus the air over the old town of Malines and the small hamlets surrounding it both day and night was musical with the bells of the carillon. On fête days a certain famous bell ringer was engaged by the authorities to play the bells from the clavecin.
The grin returned to the pugilist's face, wider than ever. He beamed with gratification. "Gee! Think of that! I've quit since then. I'm working for an old guy named Pett. Funny thing, he's Jimmy Crocker's uncle that I mistook you for. Say, you're a dead ringer for that guy! I could have sworn it was him when you bumped into me. Say, are you doing anything?" "Nothing in particular."
Just as I can detect a counterfeit bill at sight, my boy, so can I put my ringer on these money-getters when the poison of money-getting for money's sake begins to work in their veins. I don't mean the laying up of money for a rainy day, or the providing for one's family.
And he passed the picture to the other. The taxi driver bowed his head over it in a close scrutiny. When he looked up his face was a blank. "I don't know. Lemme see. I think I seen a girl like her the other day, waiting for the traffic to pass at Seventy-second and Broadway. Yep, she sure was a ringer for this picture."
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