"No he won't," I explained. "My brother Carol never tells anything. He can't."
"He's-dumb," said our Uncle Peter.
The Lady looked sort of queer.
"Oh dear-Oh dear-Oh dear," she said. "What a misfortune!"
Our Uncle Peter sort of sniffed his expression.
"Misfortune?" he said. "I call it the greatest blessing in the world!" He glared at little Dicky. "Yes the greatest blessing in the world!" he said. "A child who doesn't babble or fuss!-Or SCREAM!"
The Lady looked more and more surprised. She turned to the little boy.
"'Dumb,' Dicky," she said. "You understand? Doesn't speak?"
Dicky looked at his Mother. He looked at Carol. A little pucker came and blacked itself between his eyebrows. As though to toss the pucker away he tossed back his whole head and ran to Tiger Lily and threw his arms around Tiger Lily's neck.
"Doesn't--EVER?" he said.
"Doesn't ever-what?" said our Uncle Peter.
"Sleep?" said Dicky.
"It was the boy we were talking about," laughed his Mother. "Not the doggie." She tried to put her arms around him.
He wiggled right out of them and ran back to Tiger Lily.
"Is it his adenoids?" he cried. "Have you had his eyes tested? How do you know but what it's his teeth?"
"Whose teeth?" frowned our Uncle Peter.
"Tiger Lily's!" cried Dicky.
His Mother made a sorry sound in her throat.
"Poor Dicky," she said. "He's had most everything done to him!-Tonsils,-spine,-eyes,-ears,-teeth!-Why the last Doctor I saw was almost positive that the Insomnia was due entirely to-" In the very middle of what it was due to she turned to our Uncle Peter. Her voice got very private. Our Uncle Peter had to stoop his head to hear it. He had a proud head. It didn't stoop very easily.
"He isn't my own little boy," she whispered.
As though his ears were magic the little boy looked up and grinned. His eyes looked naughty.
"Nobody's own little boy," he said. "Nobody's own little boy!" As though it was a song without any tune he began to sing it. "Nobody's-Nobody's own little boy!"
The Lady tried to stop him. He struck at her with his feet. It made a hurt on her arm. He snatched Tiger Lily by the collar and started for the door.
"Going to find Cook and get a bone!" he said. He said it like a boast. He slammed the door behind him. It made a rude noise. He came running back and looked a little sorry, but mostly bashful. He pointed at Tiger Lily. "What-What's HE afraid of?" he said.
"Noises," I explained.
"Noises?" cried the little boy. He cried it with a sort of a hoot. It sounded scornful.
"Oh pshaw!" he said. "There isn't a noise in the world that I'm afraid of! Not thunder! Not guns! Not ANYTHING! Noises are my friends! In the night I take torpedoes and crack 'em on the hearth just to hear them sputter! I've got three tin pans tied on a string! I've got a pop-gun!"
He ran back to the table to get the gun. It was a nice gun. It was painted bright blue. It looked loud.
When Tiger Lily saw it he dove under the bed. It was hard to get him out. The little boy looked very astonished.
"It's gun-bangs-specially-that Tiger Lily is afraid of," I explained.
"Gun-bangs?" said the little boy.
"That's why he can't ever hunt," I explained.
"Hunt?" said the little boy. "Not-ever you mean?" He looked at Tiger Lily. He looked at the blue pop-gun. "Not ever? Ever? Ever?" Way down in his little fur slippers it was as though a little sigh started and shivered itself up-up-up-up till it reached his smile. It made his smile sort of wobbly. "Oh all right!" he said and ran away as fast as he could to hide the blue pop-gun in the bottom of the closet. A velocipede he piled on top of it and two pillows and a Noah's Ark and a stuffed squirrel. When the piling was all done he looked back at our Uncle Peter. It was across one shoulder that he looked back. It made his little smile look twisty as well as wobbly. One of his eyebrows had crooked itself. "It's-It's SILENCES that I'm afraid of," he said.
He grabbed Tiger Lily by the collar again and started for the door. As though he was playing a Game he reached out one finger and tagged everybody as he passed them. Everybody except Carol. When he started to tag Carol he snatched back his finger and screamed instead. "He's a Silence!" he screamed. "He's a Silence!" Still holding tight to Tiger Lily's collar he ran for the stairs.
Flop-Flop-Flop his little fur slippers thudded on the hard wood floor. Tick-Tick-Tick Lily's toe-nails clicked along beside him. It sounded cool. And slippery.
His Mother wrung her hands. It seemed to be with despair that she wrung them.
"Yes that's just it," she despaired. "It's 'Silences' that he's afraid of! That's what keeps him awake all night banging at things! That's what worries him so!"
"But he gave up the noisy pop-gun," said our Uncle Peter. "Gave it up of his own accord when he saw that it frightened the dog."
"Why so he did!" said the Mother. She seemed very much surprised. "Why so he did!-Why I don't know that I ever knew him to give up anything before. He's been so delicate-and-and the only child and everything-I'm afraid we've spoiled him."
"U-m-m," said our Uncle Peter.
"And all the circumstances of the case are so bewildering," despaired the lady.
Like white pond-lilies floating in a black gloom her sad hands curled in her lap. It seemed to be at our Uncle Peter that they curled.
"Are they indeed?" said our Uncle Peter. It was the "circumstances" that he meant.
"Very bewildering," said the Lady. Her cheeks got a little pink. She jumped up and went to the door and listened a minute at the head of the stairs. When she came back to her chair she shut the door behind her.
"As I told you," she whispered, "the little boy isn't my own little boy."
"So I understood," said our Uncle Peter.
"His Mother died when he was born," said the Lady.
"Very sad indeed," said our Uncle Peter.
"Dicky is six years old," said the Lady. "I married his Father a year and a half ago. His Father was killed in an accident a year ago-"
"Oh dear-Oh dear," said our Uncle Peter.
The Lady began all over again as though it was a lesson.
"Dicky is six years old," she said. "I married his Father a year and a half ago. He was killed in an accident a year ago. It was all so sudden,-the marriage,-the accident,-everything-!" She began to cry a little. It made her clothes look sorrowfuller and sorrowfuller and her face more and more surprised. Once again she curled up her white pond-lily hands at our Uncle Peter. It was as though she thought that our Uncle Peter could help her perhaps with some of her surprises. "I-I didn't know his Father very long," she cried. "I never knew his Mother at all!--It's-It's pretty bewildering," she said, "to be left all alone-for life-with a perfectly, strange little boy-who isn't any relation at all!-All his funny little suits to worry about-and his mumps and his measles-and-and whether he ought to play marbles 'for keeps'-and shall I send him to college or not? And suppose he turns out a burglar or something dreadful like that?-And how in the world am I going to tackle his first love affair? Or his choice of a profession?-Merciful Heavens!-Perhaps he'll want to fly!"
"Why-you're just like a Hen," said our Uncle Peter.
The Lady didn't like to be called a Hen.
It ruffled her all up.
Our Uncle Peter had to talk about Base Ball to soothe her.
The Lady didn't know anything about Base Ball but it seemed to soothe her considerably to hear about it.
When our Uncle Peter was all through soothing her she looked up as pleasant as pleasant could be.
"WHY?" she said.
"Why-what?" said our Uncle Peter. He seemed a little perplexed.
"Why-am I like a Hen?" said the Lady.
"O-h," said our Uncle Peter. He acted very much relieved. "O-h," he said. "I was afraid it was something you were going to ask me about Base Ball. But a Hen--?" He looked with smiles at the Lady. "Oh but a Hen-?-Why even a Hen, my dear Madam," he smiled, "a real professional true-enough hen doesn't take any too easily to the actual chick itself until she's served a certain sit-tightly, go-lightly, egg-shell sort of apprenticeship as it were to the IDEA.-Thrust a bunch of chicks under her before she's served this apprenticeship and--"