There was also Colonel
Hunchberg, an uncle; finally there was Aunt Cooley Hunchberg, a somewhat
decrepit but very amiable old lady. Mr. Corley Linbridge happened to be
calling at the same time; and, as it appeared to be Beasley's duty to
keep the conversation going and constantly to include all of the party
in its general flow, it struck me that he had truly (as Dowden said)
"enough to keep him busy."
The Hunchbergs had lately moved to Wainwright from Constantinople, I
learned; they had decided not to live in town, however, having purchased
a fine farm out in the country, and, on account of the distance, were
able to call at Beasley's only about eight times a day, and seldom more
than twice in the evening. Whenever a mystic telephone announced that
they were on the way, the child would have himself wheeled to a window;
and when they came in sight he would cry out in wild delight, while
Beasley hastened to open the front door and admit them.
They were so real to the child, and Beasley treated them with such
consistent seriousness, that between the two of them I sometimes began
to feel that there actually were such people, and to have moments of
half-surprise that I couldn't see them; particularly as each of the
Hunchberg's developed a character entirely his own to the last
peculiarity, such as the aged Aunt Cooley Hunchberg's deafness, on which
account Beasley never once forgot to raise his voice when he addressed
her.
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