Part 82 (1/2)
”It's when things move like that--horizontal!” George explained, p.r.o.nouncing the word carefully.
Edwin felt that there was no end to the surpa.s.sing strangeness of this boy. One moment he was aged six, and the next he was talking about horizontality.
”Why? What do you mean?”
”I don't know!” George sighed. ”But somehow--” Then, with fresh vivacity: ”I tell you--when Auntie Janet comes to wake me up in the morning the cat comes in too, with its tail up in the air--you know!”
Edwin nodded. ”Well, when I'm lying in bed I can't see the cat, but I can see the top of its tail sailing along the edge of the bed. But if I sit up I can see all the cat, and that spoils it, so I don't sit up at first.”
The child was eager for Edwin to understand his pleasure in horizontal motion that had no apparent cause, like the tip of a cat's tail on the horizon of a bed, or the roof of a tram-car on the horizon of the wall.
And Edwin was eager to understand, and almost persuaded himself that he did understand; but he could not be sure. A marvellous child-- disconcerting! He had a feeling of inferiority to the child, because the child had seen beauty where he had not dreamed of seeing it.
”Want a swing,” he suggested, ”before I have to go off to business?”
THREE.
When it occurred to him that he had had as much violent physical exercise as was good for his years, and that he had left his books in disarray, and that his business demanded him, Edwin apologetically announced that he must depart, and the child admitted that Aunt Janet was probably waiting to give him his lessons.
”Are you going back the way you came? You'd better. It's always best,”
said Edwin.
”Is it?”
”Yes.”
He lifted and pushed the writhing form on to the wall, dislodging a jar, which crashed dully on the ground.
”Auntie Janet told me I could have them to do what I liked with. So I break them,” said George, ”when they don't break themselves!”
”I bet she never told you to put them on this wall,” said Edwin.
”No, she didn't. But it was the best place for aiming. And she told me it didn't matter how many crocks I broke, because they make crocks here.
Do they, really?”
”Yes.”
”Why?”
”Because there's clay here,” said Edwin glibly.
”Where?”
”Oh! Round about.”
”White, like that?” exclaimed George eagerly, handling a teapot without a spout. He looked at Edwin: ”Will you take me to see it? I should like to see white ground.”
”Well,” said Edwin, more cautiously, ”the clay they get about here isn't exactly white.”
”Then do they make it white?”