"To think of all the trouble I took when 'e was comin'," he said, stopping in front of me. "There was nothin' the missus fancied as I wouldn't get. We was livin' in Stoke then." He made a movement of his head in the direction of Ailesworth. "Not as she was difficult," he went on thoughtfully. "She used to say 'I mussent get 'abits, George,' Caught that from me; I was always on about that--then. You know, thinkin' of learnin' 'im bowlin'. Things was different then; afore 'e came." He paused again, evidently thinking of his troubles. Sympathetically, I was wondering how far the child had separated husband and wife. There was the making of a tragedy here, I thought; but when Stott, after another period of pacing up and down, began to speak again I found that his tragedy was of another kind. "Learn 'im bowling!" he said, and laughed a mirthless laugh. "My Gawd! it 'ud take something. No fear; that little game's off. And I could a' done it if he'd been a decent or'nery child, 'stead of a blarsted freak. There won't never be another, neither. This one pretty near killed the missus. Doctor said it'd be 'er last.... With an 'ead like that, whacher expect?" "Can he walk?" I asked. "Ah! Gets about easy enough for all 'is body and legs is so small. When the missus tries to stop 'im--she's afraid 'e'll go over--'e just looks at 'er and she 'as to let 'im 'ave 'is own way." II Later, I reverted to that speech of the child's, that intelligent, illuminating speech that seemed to prove that there was indeed a powerful, thoughtful mind behind those profoundly speculative eyes. "That time he spoke, Stott," I said, "was he alone?" "Ah!" assented Stott. "In the garden, practisin' walkin' all by 'imself." "Was that the only time?" "Only time I've 'eard 'im." "Was it lately?" "'Bout six weeks ago." "And he has never made a sound otherwise, cried, laughed?" "'Ardly. 'E gives a sort o' grunt sometimes, when e' wants anything--and points." "He's very intelligent." "Worse than that, 'e's a freak, I tell you." With the repetition of this damning description, Stott fell back into his moody pacing, and this time I failed to rouse him from his gloom. "Oh! forget it," he broke out once, when I asked him another question, and I saw that he was not likely to give me any more information that day. We walked back together, and I said good-bye to him at the end of the lane which led up to his cottage. "Not comin' up?" he asked, with a nod of his head towards his home. "Well! I have to catch that train ..." I prevaricated, looking at my watch. I did not wish to see that child again; my distaste was even stronger than my curiosity. Stott grinned. "We don't 'ave many visitors," he said. "Well, I'll come a bit farther with you." He came to the bottom of the hill, and after he left me he took the road that goes over the hill to Wenderby. It would be about seven miles back to Pym by that road.... III