The boy was looking at him smiling quietly, and nodding to him.
Philip Harris closed the door with set face.
XXII
“WHAT DID YOU SEE?”
“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.