The Hampdenshire Wonder. J. D. Beresford

but in a long frock that hid its feet and was bunched about its body.

      III

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      “Er—does it—er—can it—talk?” hesitated the rubicund man, and I grew hot at his boldness. There seemed to be something disrespectful in speaking before the child in this impersonal way.

      “No, sir, he’s never made a sound,” replied the woman, twitching and vibrating. Her heavy, dark eyebrows jerked spasmodically, nervously.

      “Never cried?” persisted the interrogator.

      “Never once, sir.”

      “Dumb, eh?” He said it as an aside, half under his breath.

      “ ’E’s never spoke, sir.”

      “Hm!” The man cleared his throat and braced himself with a deliberate and obvious effort. “Is it—he—not water on the brain—what?”

      I felt that a rigour of breathless suspense held every occupant of the compartment. I wanted, and I know that every other person there wanted, to say, “Look out! Don’t go too far.” The child, however, seemed unconscious of the insult: he still stared out through the window, lost in profound contemplation.

      “No, sir, oh no!” replied the woman. “ ’E’s got more sense than a ordinary child.” She held the infant as if it were some priceless piece of earthenware, not nursing it as a woman nurses a baby, but balancing it with supreme attention in her lap.

      “How old is he?”

      We had been awaiting this question.

      “A year and nine munse, sir.”

      “Ought to have spoken before that, oughtn’t he?”

      “Never even cried, sir,” said the woman. She regarded the child with a look into which I read something of apprehension. If it were apprehension it was a feeling that we all shared. But the rubicund man was magnificent, though, like the lion tamer of my youthful experience, he was doubtless conscious of the aspect his temerity wore in the eyes of beholders. He must have been showing off.

      “Have you taken opinion?” he asked; and then, seeing the woman’s lack of comprehension, he translated the question—badly, for he conveyed a different meaning—thus,

      “I mean, have you had a doctor for him?”

      The train was slackening speed.

      “Oh! yes, sir.”

      “And what do they say?”

      The child turned its head and looked the rubicund man full in the eyes. Never in the face of any man or woman have I seen such an expression of sublime pity and contempt. …

      I remembered a small urchin I had once seen at the Zoological Gardens. Urged on by a band of other urchins, he was throwing pebbles at a great lion that lolled, finely indifferent, on the floor of its playground. Closer crept the urchin; he grew splendidly bold; he threw larger and larger pebbles, until the lion rose suddenly with a roar, and dashed fiercely down to the bars of its cage.

      I thought of that urchin’s scared, shrieking face now, as the rubicund man leant quickly back into his corner.

      Yet that was not all, for the infant, satisfied, perhaps, with its victim’s ignominy, turned and looked at me with a cynical smile. I was, as it were, taken into its confidence. I felt flattered, undeservedly yet enormously flattered. I blushed, I may have simpered.

      The train drew up in Great Hittenden station.

      The woman gathered her priceless possession carefully into her arms, and the rubicund man adroitly opened the door for her.

      “Good day, sir,” she said, as she got out.

      “Good day,” echoed the rubicund man with relief, and we all drew a deep breath of relief with him in concert, as though we had just witnessed the safe descent of some over-daring aviator.

      IV

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      As the train moved on, we six, who had been fellow-passengers for some thirty or forty minutes before the woman had entered our compartment, we who had not till then exchanged a word, broke suddenly into general conversation.

      “Water on the brain; I don’t care what any one says,” asserted the rubicund man.

      “My sister had one very similar”, put in the failure, who was sitting next to me. “It died,” he added, by way of giving point to his instance.

      “Ought not to exhibit freaks like that in public,” said an old man opposite to me.

      “You’re right, sir,” was the verdict of the artisan, and he spat carefully and scraped his boot on the floor; “them things ought to be kep’ private.”

      “Mad, of course, that’s to say imbecile”, repeated the rubicund man.

      “Horrid head he’d got,” said the failure, and shivered histrionically.

      They continued to demonstrate their contempt for the infant by many asseverations. The reaction grew. They were all bold now and all wanted to speak. They spoke as the survivors from some common peril; they were increasingly anxious to demonstrate that they had never suffered intimidation and in their relief they were anxious to laugh at the thing which had for a time subdued them. But they never named it as a cause for fear. Their speech was merely innuendo.

      At the last, however, I caught an echo of the true feeling.

      It was the rubicund man, who, most daring during the crisis was now bold enough to admit curiosity.

      “What’s your opinion, sir?” he said to me. The train was running into Wenderby; he was preparing to get out; and he leaned forward, his fingers on the handle of the door.

      I was embarrassed. Why had I been singled out by the child? I had taken no part in the recent interjectory conversation. Was this a consequence of the notice that had been paid to me?

      “I?” I stammered and then reverted to the rubicund man’s original phrase, “It—it was certainly a very remarkable child,” I said.

      The rubicund man nodded and pursed his lips. “Very,” he muttered as he alighted, “Very remarkable. Well, good day to you.”

      I returned to my book and was surprised to find that my index finger was still marking the place at which I had been interrupted some fifteen minutes before. My arm felt stiff and cramped.

      I read “… this absence of any tangible reason is the more striking the deeper our freedom goes.”

      CHAPTER II

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NOTES FOR A BIOGRAPHY OF GINGER STOTT

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      I

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      Ginger Stott is a name that was once as well known as any in England. Stott has been the subject of leading articles in every daily paper; his life has been written by an able journalist who interviewed Stott himself, during ten crowded minutes, and