Presently we sat down under an ash-tree, one of three that guarded a shallow, muddy pond skimmed with weed. Stott accepted my offer of a cigarette, but seemed disinclined to break the silence. I found nothing better to say than a repetition of the old phrase. "That's a very remarkable baby of yours, Stott," I said. "Ah!" he replied, his usual substitute for "yes," and he picked up a piece of dead wood and threw it into the little pond. "How old is he?" I asked. "Nearly two year." "Can he ..." I paused; my imagination was reconstructing the scene of the railway carriage, and I felt a reflex of the hesitation shown by the rubicund man when he had asked the same question. "Can he ... can he talk?" It seemed so absurd a question to ask, yet it was essentially a natural question in the circumstances. "He can, but he won't." This was startling enough, and I pressed my enquiry. "How do you know? Are you sure he can?" "Ah!" Only that aggravating, monosyllabic assent. "Look here, Stott," I said, "don't you want to talk about the child?" He shrugged his shoulders and threw more wood into the pond with a strained attentiveness as though he were peculiarly anxious to hit some particular wafer of the vivid, floating weed. For a full five minutes we maintained silence. I was trying to subdue my impatience and my temper. I knew Stott well enough to know that if I displayed signs of either, I should get no information from him. My self-control was rewarded at last. "I've 'eard 'im speak," he said, "speak proper, too, not like a baby." He paused, and I grunted to show that I was listening, but as he volunteered no further remark, I said: "What did you hear him say?" "I dunno," replied Stott, "somethin' about learnin' and talkin'. I didn't get the rights of it, but the missus near fainted--she thinks 'e's Gawd A'mighty or suthing." "But why don't you make him speak?" I asked deliberately. "Make 'im!" said Stott, with a curl of his lip, "make 'im! You try it on!" I knew I was acting a part, but I wanted to provoke more information. "Well! Why not?" I said. "'Cos 'e'd look at you--that's why not," replied Stott, "and you can't no more face 'im than a dog can face a man. I shan't stand it much longer." "Curious," I said, "very curious." "Oh! he's a blarsted freak, that's what 'e is," said Stott, getting to his feet and beginning to pace moodily up and down. I did not interrupt him. I was thinking of this man who had drawn huge crowds from every part of England, who had been a national hero, and who, now, was unable to face his own child. Presently Stott broke out again.