"But not when there's nobody to carry it."
"Yes, there's that miraculous new messenger boy, wireless telegraphy."
Mr. Heywood was in no mood for argument and said no more as Dr. Alton
obviously had little faith in any mysterious messenger. So, for the
moment, the subject was dropped.
When the bone was set--and it proved a simple fracture--Mr. Heywood
followed Dr. Alton to the door. "I wish, Doctor, you would ask Cyrus
how he got his information--just to gratify my curiosity."
"Are you absolutely sure that Ruth did not tell him?"
Mr. Heywood, for answer, stepped back into the hall and called to his
daughter, who at once came running down the stairs.
"Ruth," he said, "do you know how Cyrus heard of your mother's accident
so soon after it happened?"
"Yes, sir. I told him."
"You!" exclaimed her father. "Why Ruth, you never left the house!"
"And Cyrus," said Dr. Alton, "is at home, confined to the house with a
bad cold. At least that's where he ought to be."
"Oh, sir, he is!" said Ruth. "He sent me a note asking me to talk to
him, on the porch, from our house at just five o'clock, and I did.
Mother fell on the stairs just as I began to talk so I told him about
it."
"Do you mean," said her father, "that your voice carried from this
house to his, nearly a mile away?"
"Oh, no, sir! Cyrus doesn't have to hear your voice, always. He has a
special way of knowing things."
"A special way of knowing things?"
Ruth nodded.
"What do you mean, Ruth? What things?"
"Things you don't say."
"But you did say to him that your mother had an accident."
"Yes, sir; but he didn't have to hear it. He gets it some other way."
She added, with a smile: "He doesn't get it through his ears."
"Then how does he get it?"
"I don't know. He says it is in the air. He says he thinks it's a kind
of wireless telegraph and must work the same way."
"Most extraordinary!" murmured Mr. Heywood, and he looked at Dr. Alton
as if hoping for more light on a cloudy subject. Dr. Alton, however,
was gazing thoughtfully at the girl, whom he knew to be truthful. He
also knew the misleading possibility of a child's imagination. "Do you
really think, Ruth, that Cyrus learned of the accident in that way?"
"I don't know, sir. I couldn't hear anything from _him_."
"You mean if he answered back you couldn't get it?"
"Yes, sir. Nobody but Cyrus could understand anything at all, so far
away."
"He knew that you couldn't hear anything _he_ said?"
"Yes, sir. He just wanted to find out if he could tell what a person
said so far away without hearing it."
Mr. Heywood turned to Dr. Alton. "He evidently succeeded, and it seems
quite incredible."
Dr. Alton did not reply, directly. He had closed his eyes, and his own
thoughts, whatever their nature, were so absorbing that Mr. Heywood's
voice had failed to reach him. His abstraction, however, was brief.
With a smile he shook hands with Ruth. "I thank you for your testimony,
little lady. You make a perfect witness." Then to her father: "I shall
interview Cyrus at once and we will try to reach a better understanding
of the mystery."
He promised to call in the morning to see Mrs. Heywood, and then
departed.
When he entered his own house, half an hour later, he found the worker
of miracles asleep on a sofa near the open fire. Curled up at his feet
lay Zac. But Zac was not asleep. When the doctor moved toward the fire
and stood before it, warming his hands, Zac followed him with his eyes.
These cautioning eyes were saying: "Don't make a noise or you'll wake
him."
Dr. Alton understood. He made no noise. But as he looked down upon the
sleeper he saw signs of vivid dreams. The sleeper kicked, muttered and
moved his hands. One vigorous kick landed on Zac's forehead, but the
recipient merely closed his eyes, hoping for better luck another time.
One more kick, spasmodic and violent, just missing Zac's head by an
eighth of an inch, and the boy awoke. As he awoke he sat up and shouted:
"She's out!"
Seeing his father he swung his legs over the side of the sofa, blinked
and laughed aloud. Zac also laughed:--that is, he barked. He always
barked when Cyrus laughed, just to be in it. To do whatever Cyrus
did was, of course, beyond a dog's ambition, but laughter being a
manifestation of his owner's joy, he expressed himself with sincerity
and enthusiasm by tail and voice. Moreover, by always joining Cyrus
in his mirth the world might know that their tastes were similar. In
fact, to be identified with Cyrus in any way was glory enough for any
dog. Cyrus was really the Only Boy. There were, of course, other boys,
but they could not all be Cyruses. God was not running this world
on any such plan. There was always one specimen that overtopped the
others. Only one Helen of Troy, one Socrates, one Columbus, one George
Washington and one Cyrus. Zac was not familiar with these names but
they serve their humble purpose in fixing the status of the human being
that he loved and respected above all others.
"That's the funniest thing that ever was," said Cyrus. "What do you
think I dreamed? I dreamed we were playing ball on the ice on Minnebuc
Lake; us fellers against the women, and we all had skates on. I was
pitchin'. Mrs. Snell was at the bat and Deacon Whitlock first base.
Mrs. Snell's kind of fat, you know, and fierce and dignified, but she
wore trousers like the rest of us. Oh, it was funny!"
Here the miracle worker paused and wagged his head, indicating
suppressed mirth. "Well, I gave her a twister. Jimminy! Wouldn't I
like to give such balls in a real game! 'Twas an up and down curve and
a fade away all in one. It went like a cork screw. No feller would
ever try to hit it. But Mrs. Snell did! She just shut her eyes and let
go--and she hit it! I caught it and threw to first. It turned into a
snowball between me and Deacon Whitlock and hit him square in his wide
open mouth--for he's always talking to himself, you know."
"Yes, I know."
"Well, Mrs. Snell dropped her bat and went sliding down to first--on
her skates--and when she got there she couldn't stop. She just scooped
up Deacon Whitlock as if he'd been a little boy and carried him off
in her arms. He was screamin' and kickin' and wavin' his arms like a
mad baby. And Luther, who was out in right field, grabbed her by the
trousers and tried to hold her back. Oh, it was funny!"
Again the worker of miracles was convulsed with mirth.
Dr. Alton nodded, smiled and expressed a proper appreciation of the
unusual game. He looked down into the boy's laughing face, as he spoke,
and there came to him an impression, considered trivial at the moment,
but remembered later with a livelier interest. It seemed to him, for
a brief moment, that Cyrus's smiling eyes were gazing deep into his
own as if groping, in a friendly way, for unspoken thoughts. Dr. Alton
realized that this impression was probably due to his recent discovery
of the boy's extraordinary faculty--a usual look in Cyrus's eyes which,
earlier in the day, would have made no impression. But the look was
short, little more than a glance, and Cyrus lowered his eyes to his
swinging legs and pulled up a stocking which was slipping down.
"This afternoon," he said, "I broke a pane of glass in the parlor."
"How did that happen?"
"Well," said Cyrus, still watching his swinging legs, "I was playing
barn-tick in the parlor with Zac. I would throw the ball against the
wall and catch it when it bounced back, and every two or three throws
I'd let Zac get it. Then once, I threw it kind of careless----"
"Carelessly, you mean."
"Yes, sir, kind of carelessly and it hit the window instead of the
wall."
Dr. Alton slowly moved his head in acknowledgment of the explanation.
The other subject on which he desired light was so much more important
than any broken window pane that neither his face nor manner expressed
very serious disapproval. In fact, Cyrus had hardly finished his
confession before his father spoke.
"How did you happen to know, this afternoon, that Mrs. Heywood had
broken her leg?"
"Oh, that was a great idea! I've invented a new kind of wireless!" And
he went on to tell, but in different words, the same story that Ruth
had given. "And just think! if everybody can do it there won't be any
need of telegraph machines, or letters either. People can talk miles
apart--just talk, as Ruth and I did!"
"Yes, of course, but how long ago did you find you could do this?"
"Only to-day. This was the first time."
"But Ruth says you often know what people think, or are going to say,
before they say it?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long have you been able to do this?"
"Oh, p'r'aps three or four years."
"Why did you never happen to tell me?"
"I supposed you knew. I supposed everybody could do it."
"No; it's a very unusual faculty--very unusual indeed." Then, with a
smile: "I suppose you have often known what _I_ was thinking?"