I was sceptical at first. I noted at once the sure touch with which the boy handled my books, the practised hand that turned the pages, the quick examination of title-page and the list of contents, the occasional swift reference to the index, but I did not believe it possible that any one could read so fast as he read when he did condescend for a few moments to give his attention to a few consecutive pages. "Was it a pose?" I thought, yet he was certainly an adept in handling the books. I was puzzled, yet I was still sceptical--the habit of experience was towards disbelief--a boy of seven and a half could not possibly have the mental equipment to skim all that philosophy.... My books were being unpacked very quickly. Kant, Hegel, Schelling, Fichte, Leibnitz, Nietzsche, Hume, Bradley, William James had all been rejected and were piled on the floor, but he had hesitated longer over Bergson's Creative Evolution. He really seemed to be giving that some attention, though he read it--if he were reading it--so fast that the hand which turned the pages hardly rested between each movement. When Bergson was sent to join his predecessors, I determined that I would get some word out of this strange child--I had never yet heard him speak, not a single syllable. I determined to brave all rebuffs. I was prepared for that. "Well?" I said, when Bergson was laid down. "Well! What do you make of that?" He turned and looked out of the window. I came and sat on the end of the table within a few feet of him. From that position I, too, could see out of the window, and I saw the figure of the Harrison idiot slouching over the farmyard gate. A gust of impatience whirled over me. I caught up my stick and went out quickly. "Now then," I said, as I came within speaking distance of the idiot, "get away from here. Out with you!" The idiot probably understood no word of what I said, but like a dog he was quick to interpret my tone and gesture. He made a revoltingly inhuman sound as he shambled away, a kind of throaty yelp. I walked back to the house. I could not avoid the feeling that I had been unnecessarily brutal. When I returned the Wonder was still staring out of the window; but though I did not guess it then, the idiot had served my purpose better than my determination. It was to the idiot that I owed my subsequent knowledge of Victor Stott. The Wonder had found a use for me. He was resigned to bear with my feeble mental development, because I was strong enough to keep at bay that half-animal creature who appeared to believe that Victor Stott was one of his own kind--the only one he had ever met. The idiot in some unimaginable way had inferred a likeness between himself and the Wonder--they both had enormous heads--and the idiot was the only human being over whom the Wonder was never able to exercise the least authority. IV