Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (268 page)

The
sensation
created
in
Baltimore
was,
at
first,
prodigious.
What the
mishap
would
have
cost
the
Buttons
and
their
kinsfolk
socially cannot
be
determined,
for
the
outbreak
of
the
Civil
War
drew
the city's
attention
to
other
things.
A
few
people
who
were
unfailingly polite
racked
their
brains
for
compliments
to
give
to
the
parents—and finally
hit
upon
the
ingenious
device
of
declaring
that
the
baby
resembled
his
grandfather,
a
fact
which,
due
to
the
standard
state
of
decay common
to
all
men
of
seventy,
could
not
be
denied.
Mr.
and
Mrs. Roger
Button
were
not
pleased,
and
Benjamin's
grandfather
was
furiously
insulted.

Benjamin,
once
he
left
the
hospital,
took
life
as
he
found
it.
Several small
boys
were
brought
to
see
him,
and
he
spent
a
stiff-jointed
afternoon
trying
to
work
up
an
interest
in
tops
and
marbles—he
even
managed,
quite
accidentally,
to
break
a
kitchen
window
with
a
stone
from a
slingshot,
a
feat
which
secretly
delighted
his
father.

Thereafter
Benjamin
contrived
to
break
something
every
day,
but he
did
these
things
only
because
they
were
expected
of
him,
and
because
he
was
by
nature
obliging.

When
his
grandfather's
initial
antagonism
wore
off,
Benjamin
and that
gentleman
took
enormous
pleasure
in
one
another's
company. They
would
sit
for
hours,
these
two
so
far
apart
in
age
and
experience, and,
like
old
cronies,
discuss
with
tireless
monotony
the
slow
events of
the
day.
Benjamin
felt
more
at
ease
in
his
grandfather's
presence than
in
his
parents'—they
seemed
always
somewhat
in
awe
of
him and,
despite
the
dictatorial
authority
they
exercised
over
him,
frequently
addressed
him
as
"Mr."

He
was
as
puzzled
as
anyone
else
at
the
apparently
advanced
age of
his
mind
and
body
at
birth.
He
read
up
on
it
in
the
medical
journal,
but
found
that
no
such
case
had
been
previously
recorded.
At his
father's
urging
he
made
an
honest
attempt
to
play
with
other
boys, and
frequently
he
joined
in
the
milder
games—football
shook
him
up too
much,
and
he
feared
that
in
case
of
a
fracture
his
ancient
bones would
refuse
to
knit.

When
he
was
five
he
was
sent
to
kindergarten,
where
he
was
initiated
into
the
art
of
pasting
green
paper
on
orange
paper,
of
weaving colored
maps
and
manufacturing
eternal
cardboard
necklaces.
He
was inclined
to
drowse
off
to
sleep
in
the
middle
of
these
tasks,
a
habit which
both
irritated
and
frightened
his
young
teacher.
To
his
relief she
complained
to
his
parents,
and
he
was
removed
from
the
school. The
Roger
Buttons
told
their
friends
that
they
felt
he
was
too
young.

By
the
time
he
was
twelve
years
old
his
parents
had
grown
used to
him.
Indeed,
so
strong
is
the
force
of
custom
that
they
no
longer felt
that
he
was
different
from
any
other
child—except
when
some curious
anomaly
reminded
them
of
the
fact.
But
one
day
a
few weeks
after
his
twelfth
birthday,
while
looking
in
the
mirror,
Benjamin
made,
or
thought
he
made,
an
astonishing
discovery.
Did
his
eyes deceive
him,
or
had
his
hair
turned
in
the
dozen
years
of
his
life
from white
to
iron-gray
under
its
concealing
dye?
Was
the
network
of wrinkles
on
his
face
becoming
less
pronounced?
Was
his
skin
healthier and
firmer,
with
even
a
touch
of
ruddy
winter
color?
He
could
not tell.
He
knew
that
he
no
longer
stooped
and
that
his
physical
condition
had
improved
since
the
early
days
of
his
life.