Then waxing calmer he said, “It is you Bridgeford people and your Musical Banks that have done it all.  The Musical Bank Managers saw that the people were falling away from them.  Finding that the vulgar believed this foreign devil Higgs—­for he gave this name to my mother when he was in prison—­finding that—­But you know all this as well as I do.  How can you Bridgeford Professors pretend to believe about these horses, and about the Sunchild’s being son to the sun, when all the time you know there is no truth in it?”

“My son—­for considering the difference in our ages I may be allowed to call you so—­we at Bridgeford are much like you at Sunch’ston; we dare not always say what we think.  Nor would it be wise to do so, when we should not be listened to.  This fire must burn itself out, for it has got such hold that nothing can either stay or turn it.  Even though Higgs himself were to return and tell it from the house-tops that he was a mortal—­ay, and a very common one—­he would be killed, but not believed.”

“Let him come; let him show himself, speak out and die, if the people choose to kill him.  In that case I would forgive him, accept him for my father, as silly people sometimes say he is, and honour him to my dying day.”

“Would that be a bargain?” said my father, smiling in spite of emotion so strong that he could hardly bring the words out of his mouth.

“Yes, it would,” said the youth doggedly.

“Then let me shake hands with you on his behalf, and let us change the conversation.”

He took my father’s hand, doubtfully and somewhat disdainfully, but he did not refuse it.

CHAPTER VI:  FURTHER CONVERSATION BETWEEN FATHER AND SON—­THE PROFESSORS’ HOARD

It is one thing to desire a conversation to be changed, and another to change it.  After some little silence my father said, “And may I ask what name your mother gave you?”

“My name,” he answered, laughing, “is George, and I wish it were some other, for it is the first name of that arch-impostor Higgs.  I hate it as I hate the man who owned it.”

My father said nothing, but he hid his face in his hands.

“Sir,” said the other, “I fear you are in some distress.”

“You remind me,” replied my father, “of a son who was stolen from me when he was a child.  I searched for him, during many years, and at last fell in with him by accident, to find him all the heart of father could wish.  But alas! he did not take kindly to me as I to him, and after two days he left me; nor shall I ever again see him.”

“Then, sir, had I not better leave you?”

“No, stay with me till your road takes you elsewhere; for though I cannot see my son, you are so like him that I could almost fancy he is with me.  And now—­for I shall show no more weakness—­you say your mother knew the Sunchild, as I am used to call him.  Tell me what kind of a man she found him.”