THE PIXIE STARTS IT
Of course, Wendell’s intentions were excellent. He fully meant to devote
himself to that home work, to forget the fairy stories that still hung
like a mist about his brain and tackle those fractions like a man. But
we all know how it is,--just as soon as we have looked at this one funny
page of the newspaper, or read this one verse, or found out what the
next chapter is about, we will certainly settle right down to business.
There was the arithmetic. There were the two fairy books from the
Library. Unless you are a seraph with wings and always do your duty, you
will not be surprised to hear that Wendell treated himself to just one
peek at the fairy stories before doing his home work, and that he never
thought of those fractions till he heard his mother’s step on the
stairs, when he shoved the fairy book into his desk drawer and opened
his arithmetic at random.
“Bedtime, my son. Have you finished your lessons?” asked his mother.
“No! Bothersome lot! Can’t make anything of this example--have to give
me another half-hour,” muttered Wendell, not really wishing to deceive
his dear mother, but a little bit ashamed to tell her how he had
neglected his duty.
“I’m sorry, dear, but you’ll have to do it in the morning. You mustn’t
lose sleep. And your brain will be clearer then. I’ll tell Jane to call
you half an hour early.”
“Many are called, but few get up,” as the proverb hath it. Wendell, next
morning, was not one of the few. Jane’s call fell on sleepy ears. He
turned over for one more snooze, woke an hour later to find himself ‘way
behind time, hustled through his dressing and his breakfast, and was off
to school with lessons unprepared,--a sad thing that happened only too
often in his easy-going life.
He managed to slide through most of his recitations, badly but not
disgracefully, until he came to the arithmetic class. I might tell you
in detail of his tragic floundering through problems that he was
supposed to have prepared, of his guilty acknowledgment that he had not
made up the delinquencies of yesterday and the day before, and of the
stern wrath that was visited upon him by the arithmetic teacher, a
strict and disciplinary spinster, whose patience he had often tried in
the past. But this is not a school story. I have to record only such a
part of his troublous career as led directly to the wonderful adventure
of the Wishing Stone. So, briefly, he was “kept in,” with three days’
problems to finish before he could go home.
His teacher, who bore the singularly happy name of Miss Ounce, left him
alone in the deserted school-room. She had a lesson to give in another
part of the building. Wendell pulled his book in front of him, flipped
the pages open to the proper place, ran his fingers through his hair,
and remained in that attitude, which may have denoted either deep
concentration or utter dejection. He read the first problem through
twice, and it had no more meaning for him than Dante’s Inferno in the
original tongue.
“Jee-rusalem!” he said aloud after a long pause.
“Can I be of any assistance?” asked a friendly voice. It came from a
little being perched on the desk in front of him, who certainly had not
been there a moment before. He was about the size of a two-year-old
child, but he had the face of an old man, a genial old man with
twinkling eyes. His body was very round and quite filled his suit of
blue knitted jersey, and his arms and legs were long and spindling.
“For goodness’ sake, who are you?” gasped Wendell.
“I’m a Pixie,” said the being.
“You are?” said Wendell. “I didn’t know there were any--out of fairy
stories.”
“But I’m _in_ a fairy story,” explained the Pixie politely. “I’m in the
same fairy story you’re in.”
“Am I in one?” said the startled Wendell.
“Since last night,” declared the Pixie. “You wished to be, you know, on
the Wishing Stone, after you had run around it nine times. It’s a sure
charm.”
“The Wishing Stone! Is that the old Wishing Stone--the alley post?”
“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.”
“I should say not,” said the Pixie with scorn in his voice. “That might
be all very well for the old Kobold that lives under Flag Staff Hill.
It’s just his style, in fact. He’s using the same stuff he did when
Merlin was practicing. No, I like to advance with the best thought of
the time. I’m no back number. Trust me, _I_’ll find something up to
date.”
“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.
“Um, um!” murmured Miss Ounce. “Very good! Might be neater. Every one
right, though. Now, Wendell, why is it that when you can do such
excellent work as this, you have such a shocking daily record? Yes,
_shocking_ is the word.”
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.