II
Challis understood him. “You have not yet learned the meaning of words?” he asked.
The brief period—the only one recorded—of amazement and submission was over. It may be that he had doubted during those few minutes of time whether he was well advised to enter into that world of books, whether he would not by so doing stunt his own mental growth. It may be that the decision of so momentous a question should have been postponed for a year—two years; to a time when his mind should have had further possibilities for unlettered expansion. However that may be, he decided now and finally. He walked to the table and climbed up on a chair.
“Books about words,” he commanded, and pointed at Challis and Lewes.
They brought him the latest production of the twentieth century in many volumes, the work of a dozen eminent authorities on the etymology of the English language, and they seated him on eight volumes of the Encyclopædia Britannica (India paper edition) in order that he might reach the level of the table.
At first they tried to show him how his wonderful dictionary should be used, but he pushed them on one side, neither then nor at any future time would he consent to be taught—the process was too tedious for him, his mind worked more fluently, rapidly, and comprehensively than the mind of the most gifted teacher that could have been found for him.
So Challis and Lewes stood on one side and watched him, and he was no more embarrassed by their presence than if they had been in another world, as, possibly, they were.
He began with volume one, and he read the title page and the introduction, the list of abbreviations, and all the preliminary matter in due order.
Challis noted that when the Wonder began to read, he read no faster than the average educated man, but that he acquired facility at a most astounding rate, and that when he had been reading for a few days his eye swept down the column, as it were at a single glance.
Challis and Lewes watched him for, perhaps, half an hour, and then, seeing that their presence was of an entirely negligible value to the Wonder, they left him and went into the farther room.
“Well?” asked Challis, “what do you make of him?”
“Is he reading or pretending to read?” parried Lewes. “Do you think it possible that he could read so fast? Moreover, remember that he has admitted that he knows few words of the English language, yet he does not refer from volume to volume; he does not look up the meanings of the many unknown words which must occur in every definition.”
“I know. I had noticed that.”
“Then you think he is humbugging—pretending to read?”
“No; that solution seems to me altogether unlikely. He could not, for one thing, simulate that look of attention. Remember, Lewes, the child is not yet five years old.”
“What is your explanation, then?”
“I am wondering whether the child has not a memory beside which the memory of a Macaulay would appear insignificant.”
Lewes did not grasp Challis’s intention. “Even so ...” he began.
“And,” continued Challis, “I am wondering whether, if that is the case, he is, in effect, prepared to learn the whole dictionary by heart, and, so to speak, collate its contents later, in his mind.”
“Oh! Sir!” Lewes smiled. The supposition was too outrageous to be taken seriously. “Surely, you can’t mean that.” There was something in Lewes’s tone which carried a hint of contempt for so far-fetched a hypothesis.
Challis was pacing up and down the library, his hands clasped behind him. “Yes, I mean it,” he said, without looking up. “I put it forward as a serious theory, worthy of full consideration.”
Lewes sneered. “Oh, surely not, sir,” he said.
Challis stopped and faced him. “Why not, Lewes; why not?” he asked, with a kindly smile. “Think of the gap which separates your intellectual powers from those of a Polynesian savage. Why, after all, should it be impossible that this child’s powers should equally transcend our own? A freak, if you will, an abnormality, a curious effect of nature’s, like the giant puff-ball—but still——”
“Oh! yes, sir, I grant you the thing is not impossible from a theoretical point of view,” argued Lewes, “but I think you are theorising on altogether insufficient evidence. I am willing to admit that such a freak is theoretically possible, but I have not yet found the indications of such a power in the child.”
Challis resumed his pacing. “Quite, quite,” he assented; “your method is perfectly correct—perfectly correct. We must wait.”
At twelve o’clock Challis brought a glass of milk and some biscuits, and set them beside the Wonder—he was at the letter “B.”
“Well, how are you getting on?” asked Challis.
The Wonder took not the least notice of the question, but he stretched out a little hand and took a biscuit and ate it, without looking up from his reading.
“I wish he’d answer questions,” Challis remarked to Lewes, later.
“I should prescribe a sound shaking,” returned Lewes.
Challis smiled. “Well, see here, Lewes,” he said, “I’ll take the responsibility; you go and experiment, go and shake him.”
Lewes looked through the folding doors at the picture of the Wonder, intent on his study of the great dictionary. “Since you’ve franked me,” he said, “I’ll do it—but not now. I’ll wait till he gives me some occasion.”
“Good,” replied Challis, “my offer holds ... and, by the way, I have no doubt that an occasion will present itself. Doesn’t it strike you as likely, Lewes, that we shall see a good deal of the child here?”
They stood for some minutes, watching the picture of that intent student, framed in the written thoughts of his predecessors.