THE CAP OF THOUGHT
Almost drowned by the continuous bellow of the Giant, and yet coming
distinctly to his consciousness, he seemed to hear, or rather feel, a
low monotonous voice that bore a resemblance to the Giant’s speaking
tone, and yet had no quality of roar about it:--“I must shut that
window. If he should jump out of that to the porch roof, he could easily
climb down the trellis.”
_It was the Giant, thinking!_
Wendell took a chance and jumped for the window. Just in time! As he
landed on the porch roof, the window was slammed behind him. He went
backwards down the trellis, and just before his eyes dropped below the
level, he saw the Giant pass the window again, pursuing the scent, which
doubtless still lingered. Spent and breathless though he was, fright
urged the boy on, and he ran two blocks, then dropped under a tree in a
garden and lay at full length on his back with the Cloak around him. He
lay there a long while, slowly recovering from his terrible exhaustion
and gradually getting his nerve back. At length he rose, took off and
folded his Cloak, put on his cloth cap, which he had stuffed into his
pocket on entering the Giant’s house, and walked on to the electric car.
He had quite forgotten the Cap of Thought, which he was still wearing
under his own cap,--and that single fact shows how dazed the encounter
with the Giant had left him. But as soon as he got on the car, he was
reminded of the Cap by the babel of thoughts that greeted him. The
undercurrent was a low expressionless hum blending indistinctly from
minds intent upon the newspapers; but other thoughts reached him clearly
and stridently:--“If the stores aren’t closed, I’ll try to get some of
that blue denim for Jackie’s overalls.” “If he does ask me to the next
dance, I really think I ought to have a new pink georgette.” “I can’t
account for that dollar--let me see, fifteen cents for the cigar,
seventeen cents for the soda, that leaves sixty-eight and five”--. Above
them all, one insistent thought reiterated, savagely, “If he calls me
that again, I’ll show him where he gets off!”
Wendell was very anxious to examine the Cap of Thought more closely. The
brief time that he had held it in his hands in the Giant’s house had
been so crowded with other impressions that he had but an indistinct
conception of his new treasure. He went straight to his room and took it
off and was delighted with its beauty. At first sight it seemed to be
made of gray cobwebs closely woven together into an almost colorless
fabric, but in certain lights it looked as if woven of strands of glass
in rainbow colors. As there was no one upstairs to try its magic
properties on, Wendell decided to wear it in the library after dinner,
and find out what his family was thinking about. He noticed in the
glass, with great satisfaction, that the Cap took on the color of his
own brown hair, so that it was barely visible.
There was a pleasant group in the library when he joined them after
dinner. They were all very quiet. His mother was darning stockings, his
father reading the _Transcript_ and occasionally reading some item
aloud, and his Latin School brother playing checkers with Cousin
Virginia. Yet the room was filled, to Wendell’s sensitive consciousness,
with a fine hum, as of conversation. He sat down quietly behind his
mother, who had not heard him come in.
“And then,” she went on thinking, “he will step down from the stage,
with everyone applauding wildly and saying, ‘Yes, that’s the one. That’s
Wendell Cabot Bradford, the prize orator, the greatest public speaker
Harvard has ever produced.’” Turning, she saw Wendell, gave him a loving
smile, and wondered why he looked so red and uncomfortable.
He tried his father next, and was greatly interested to hear two trains
of thought going on in his mind at once, one on the widening of State
Street (the subject discussed in the editorial that he was reading), and
the other apparently a memory of a telephone conversation he had held
that afternoon with the head-master of Wendell’s school. He seemed to
be turning over in his mind, while he read the editorial, the best
method of introducing the subject under discussion into a conversation
with Wendell; and as the subject under discussion had been the very
painful one of Wendell’s low standing, Wendell decided to go to bed at
once. He paused long enough to learn that his brother Otis’ thought had
nothing to do with checkers, but was idly resting on a dimple in the
cheek of a Dedham girl named Dorothy, whom Wendell had never heard of
(but he treasured the name in memory for future diplomatic use); and
that Cousin Virginia was thinking:--“Oh, to be in New York now the
toddle’s there! Boston! Checkers!! Baked Beans!!! Antimacassars!!!!
Silhouettes!!!!! Pantalettes!!!!!!! I shall die!”
The telephone rang. Wendell offered to go, as he was “just starting for
bed anyway.” It proved to be someone asking for him.
“Do you know who this is?” asked an eager girlish voice. “Can’t you
guess? It’s the Beauteous Maiden. I knew you would want to hear from me,
but I had _such_ a time finding you! I didn’t know how you were listed.
Yes, I’m getting on beautifully. Oh, yes, the contract is signed. We did
it that day. The president of the producing company is delighted with
me. He says I shall film beautifully. He says my youth, innocence, and
beauty will make me the most popular girl in America.--How are you
progressing with the invisible cloak?--You have? How perfectly splendid!
And the Cap of--? You have? How perfectly wonderful! And the Book? No,
I don’t know where she keeps it. I never saw it. But she always keeps
the attic locked and never let me up there, so that might be--Oh, let me
give you my phone number. You must let me know, of course, how it comes
out.”
Wendell wrote it down, but there was a queer sinking in the place where
he kept his heart--or his stomach: he didn’t know which. He was
remembering the Kobold’s remark about marrying the Beauteous Maiden.
Whenever he thought of it, he was attacked by that same curious sinking.
What a brainless fellow that Kobold was, to be sure, just as the Pixie
had said! He rather wished he hadn’t been so short with the Pixie last
night. He was a well-meaning chap, after all, and a fiend at fractions.
When he got upstairs to his room, there was the Pixie waiting for him,
and Wendell was really very glad to see him, and decided not to reopen
the subject of the Pixie’s precipitate flight from the Giant’s house.
The Pixie was tremendously interested in the Cap of Thought. He tried it
on, and also the Cloak of Darkness, and had Wendell try them both on to
show how they worked. And the Pixie gave some very kind advice as to
getting possession of the magic book, and offered to work some of his
best transformation spells; but Wendell had his plan all made and laid
it before the Pixie. It was, to go out very early Saturday morning, when
he would have a holiday from school, watch the house till the Giant had
left, and thus have the whole day ahead of him, to search the premises.
He relied on the magic Cloak and Cap to help him out of any
difficulties that might arise.
“Well, perhaps that’s the best plan,” assented the Pixie. “And of
course, if you find it necessary, you can count on me to change you into
anything we think most useful. For instance, you might like to be
changed to a moving truck, if this magic book is like any other magic
books I’ve ever seen.”
“How do you mean?” said Wendell.
“Well, the subject matter is pretty heavy, you know. It makes the book
rather weighty.”
“Oh, does it?” said Wendell. “I didn’t know.”
“And another thing I want to warn you of,” said the Pixie seriously.
“Don’t read any charm aloud, till you know what it’s for. They ought to
make those magic books fool-proof, but they don’t.”
“I’ll remember,” said Wendell.