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Read Ebook: It's Your Fairy Tale You Know by Jackson Elizabeth Rhodes Kattelle L E W Illustrator
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Ebook has 669 lines and 29083 words, and 14 pages
"Somewhat fallen into disuse," assented the Pixie, "but never-the-less the Wishing Stone."
"Well, I never!" said Wendell.
It was so stupendous, such an unbelievable piece of good fortune, that at first he did not grasp its possibilities. Then his eye fell on the open book lying on his desk.
"Say!" he exclaimed. "If that's all true, if I'm really living in a fairy story, there ought to be some way of settling junk like this in short order." He gave a vindictive thump to the arithmetic.
"That's what I came for," said the Pixie. "I thought I saw a business opening here."
"You mean--" faltered Wendell.
"Why, I'll do your problems for you. That's easy. And you do three tasks for me."
"Three?"
"Yes, it's always three," said the Pixie.
"Say, I think I ought to get more than just these problems for three. I think you ought to do my home work till the end of the term."
"Just as soon," said the Pixie. "No trouble to me. Is it a bargain?"
"But what will you want me to do?" said Wendell.
"I don't know what I want you to do," returned the Pixie. "How should I know? Take a chance. Be a sport."
"All right," said Wendell. "I will. Here are the problems."
"Look in your desk," said the Pixie immediately.
Wendell opened it. There lay three sheets of large pad paper, covered with problems completely solved. Wendell's name and the date were written at the top in his own handwriting. The work was done neatly enough to pass, but not so excessively neatly as to arouse suspicion.
"Well, you are some little fiend at arithmetic," pronounced Wendell with great relief.
"Glad you are satisfied," said the Pixie. "Of course you understand that if you can't perform my tasks, you belong to me."
"Well, I might as well belong to you as to Miss Ounce," ruminated Wendell. "Come on with your first task. I suppose it will be water in a sieve from the Charles River or something like that. They always are."
"Well, speed up," said Wendell. "What do you want me to do?"
"How should I know?" said the Pixie. "Give me time. I'll drop around to-night and let you know."
Just as he was speaking, the door opened, and in came Miss Ounce, and maybe Wendell didn't jump! He started so conspicuously that Miss Ounce fixed him with an accusing eye and said,
"Well, Wendell, up to mischief, I suppose, instead of doing your work."
"No, Miss Ounce," said Wendell, noting with relief that the Pixie was nowhere in sight, and promptly handed over his papers.
Wendell knew the answer to that, but he didn't give it. He took his lecture silently, standing first on one foot and then on the other, but his mind was on the magic task that the Pixie was to set him, and as soon as he could he slid out of the room.
The Pixie came that evening, true to his word. Wendell, undisturbed by fractions, luxuriously idling over his fairy books, looked up suddenly and there sat the funny little fellow on the foot of the bed.
"How are you?" said the Pixie. "I didn't have time to say good-bye to-day. Your Miss Ounce turned the door-handle too quickly."
"That's all right," said Wendell. "Are you ready to spring my first task yet?"
"Why, there's no such thing," said Wendell vexedly. "An aeroplane traveling underground! How silly! An aeroplane doesn't travel underground. How can it?"
"Don't ask me," shrugged the Pixie. "How should I know? You can't expect me to make up the tasks and think up the answers too. Be reasonable." And he vanished.
Wendell was greatly cast down.
"It's a fool task," he said as he went to bed. "In fact, it's impossible."
He woke with a sense of calamity hanging over him. Really, it was almost as bad as having fractions on his mind. He was so serious at breakfast that Cousin Virginia asked him if he was practicing to be a Puritan Ancestor at a fancy-dress ball. This levity seemed to Wendell ill-timed.
The brooding anxiety lingered with him all through school time. What if he couldn't do the task? What would it be like to belong to a Pixie? He didn't like the prospect.
He came out of his school on Beacon Street, still with the cloud lowering over him. He felt desperate. He thought of going over to the train yards of South Station and stealing a ride in an empty cattle-car bound for the prairies of the West. He meditated stowing away on a ship bound for Timbuctoo or Guam or somewhere. Just then a tempting truck passed him "south"-bound on Beacon Street. It was low and it was going slowly, and altogether it offered just the right opportunity to "hook" a ride. Wendell seized the opportunity and the truck together; and dodged down inside unseen by the driver.
In Allston, Wendell dropped out again. His mind was somewhat relieved by this pleasant adventure, and he didn't wish to get too far from home. He hailed an electric for Park Street.
Now, you may not believe it, but the first thing he saw when he got on the car was an aeroplane--a toy aeroplane about four feet long, carried in the arms of a freckle-faced boy.
Wendell sat down by the boy.
"Does it go?" he said.
"Sure it does," said the freckle-faced boy.
"How?" said Wendell.
"You wind it up," said the boy.
It was apparently a perfect model of a large aeroplane, a fascinating toy. The freckle-faced boy let him hold it, let him examine it closely. It was a joy to see such a perfect mechanical model on that small scale; but suddenly it brought a leaden lump to Wendell's heart. It reminded him of his impossible task.
"Where you taking it?" asked Wendell.
"Home. I live in Medford."
"Change at Park Street?" said Wendell.
"Scollay Square," said the boy. They were now opposite the Public Garden.
"I'll bet it can travel," said Wendell.
"You've said it," replied the boy. "But," he added, grinning, as the electric sloped down into the Subway, "this is the first time it ever traveled underground."
Wendell nearly bounced from his seat. "Say!" he almost yelled. "What'll you take for that aeroplane?"
"Don't want to sell it," said the boy. "I just got it."
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