"What did you see--boy?" Philip Harris stood with his legs well apart,
looking at him.

The boy answered quickly, his quick gesture running to the picture above
them, and filling out his words. He had gathered the story of the child
as the mother had gathered his--and his voice trembled a little, but it
did not falter in the broken words.

Philip Harris glanced up. The rain on the skylight had ceased, but the
room was full of dusk. "There is not time," he said, "to-night--You must
rest now, and have your dinner and go to bed. To-morrow there will be
men to question you. You must tell them what you have told us."

"I tell them," said the boy simply, "--what I see."

So the boy slept quietly... and through the night, messages ran beneath
the ground, they leaped out and struck wires--and laughed. Men bent
their heads to listen... and spoke softly and hurried. Cars thrust
themselves forth, striking at the miles--their great bulk sliding on.
The world was awake--gathering itself... toward the boy.

In the morning they questioned him--they set down his answers with
quick, sharp jerks that asked for more. And the boy repeated faithfully
all that he had told; and the surgeon sitting beside him watched with
keen eyes--and smiled.... The boy would hold. He was sound. But they
must be careful... and after a little he sent him into the garden to
work--while the men compared notes and sent despatches and the story
travelled into the world, tallying itself against the face of every
rogue. But there were no faces that matched it--no faces such as the