There were days, of course, when his attacks were upon him, and only Beasley and the doctor and old Bob saw him; I do not know what the boy's mental condition was at such times; but when he was better, and could be wheeled about the house and again receive callers, he displayed an almost dismaying activity of mind—it was active enough, certainly, to keep far ahead of my own. And he was masterful: still, Beasley and Dowden and I were never directly chidden for insubordination, though made to wince painfully by the look of troubled surprise that met us when we were not quick enough to catch his meaning.
The order of the day with him always began with the “HOO-ray” and “BR-R-RA-vo” of greeting; after which we were to inquire, “Who's with us to-day?” Whereupon he would make known the character in which he elected to be received for the occasion. If he announced himself as “Mister Swift,” everything was to be very grown-up and decorous indeed. Formalities and distances were observed; and Mr. Corley Linbridge (an elderly personage of great dignity and distinction as a mountain-climber) was much oftener included in the conversation than Bill Hammersley. If, however, he declared himself to be “Hamilton Swift, Junior,” which was his happiest mood, Bill Hammersley and Simpledoria were in the ascendant, and there were games and contests. (Dowden, Beasley, and I all slid down the banisters on one of the Hamilton Swift, Junior, days, at which really picturesque spectacle the boy almost cried with laughter—and old Bob and his wife, who came running from the kitchen, DID cry.) He had a third appellation for himself—“Just little Hamilton”; but this was only when the creaky voice could hardly chirp at all and the weazened face was drawn to one side with suffering. When he told us he was “Just little Hamilton” we were very quiet.
Once, for ten days, his Invisibles all went away on a visit: Hamilton Swift, Junior, had become interested in bears. While this lasted, all of Beasley's trousers were, as Dowden said, “a sight.” For that matter, Dowden himself was quite hoarse in court from growling so much. The bears were dismissed abruptly: Bill Hammersley and Mr. Corley Linbridge and Simpledoria came trooping back, and with them they brought that wonderful family, the Hunchbergs.
Beasley had just opened the front door, returning at noon from his office, when Hamilton Swift, Junior's voice came piping from the library, where he was reclining in his wagon by the window.
“Cousin David Beasley! Cousin David, come a-running!” he cried. “Come a-running! The Hunchbergs are here!”
Of course Cousin David Beasley came a-running, and was immediately introduced to the whole Hunchberg family, a ceremony which old Bob, who was with the boy, had previously undergone with courtly grace.
“They like Bob,” explained Hamilton. “Don't you, Mr. Hunchberg? Yes, he says they do extremely!” (He used such words as “extremely” often; indeed, as Dowden said, he talked “like a child in a book,” which was due, I dare say, to his English mother.) “And I'm sure,” the boy went on, “that all the family will admire Cousin David. Yes, Mr. Hunchberg says, he thinks they will.”
And then (as Bob told me) he went almost out of his head with joy when Beasley offered Mr. Hunchberg a cigar and struck a match for him to light it.
“But WHAR,” exclaimed the old darky, “whar in de name o' de good Gawd do de chile git dem NAMES? Hit lak to SKEER me!”
That was a subject often debated between Dowden and me: there was nothing in Wainwright that could have suggested them, and it did not seem probable he could have remembered them from over the water. In my opinion they were the inventions of that busy and lonely little brain.