It happened that I thus met him, as we were both starting down-town, and
walked on with him, several days in succession; in a word, it became a
habit. Then, one afternoon, as I turned to leave him at the "Despatch"
office, he asked me if I wouldn't drop in at his house the next day for
a cigar before we started. I did; and he asked me if I wouldn't come
again the day after that. So this became a habit, too.

A fortnight elapsed before I met Hamilton Swift, Junior; for he, poor
little father of dream-children, could be no spectator of track events
upon the lawn, but lay in his bed up-stairs. However, he grew better at
last, and my presentation took place.

We had just finished our cigars in Beasley's airy, old-fashioned
"sitting-room," and were rising to go, when there came the faint
creaking of small wheels from the hall. Beasley turned to me with the
apologetic and monosyllabic chuckle that was distinctly his alone.

"I've got a little chap here--" he said; then went to the door. "Bob!"

The old darky appeared in the doorway pushing a little wagon like a
reclining-chair on wheels, and in it sat Hamilton Swift, Junior.

My first impression of him was that he was all eyes: I couldn't look at
anything else for a time, and was hardly conscious of the rest of that
weazened, peaked little face and the under-sized wisp of a body with its
pathetic adjuncts of metal and leather. I think they were the brightest
eyes I ever saw--as keen and intelligent as a wicked old woman's, withal
as trustful and cheery as the eyes of a setter pup.

"HOO-ray!"