The wizard inclined his head gravely, and opened a large volume before him upon the table.
After poring over this for a time, he said the following doggrel in a deep bass voice—
"The doom of Mole is understood,
For ever more to walk on wood;
Though upon macadam or stone
Yet he shall walk on wood alone.
"Let him march out on asphalte—tile,
In orange groves his thoughts beguile;
Where'er he be, the fate of Mole's
To scud through life upon bare poles"
This peculiar incantation had its effect somewhat increased by soft music.
"Ahem!" said Mr. Mole, "it didn't want a wizard to tell me that."
"What, sir?" demanded Harry, innocently.
"About my wooden legs; my infirmity is visible to every body."
"But how could he know?"
"By looking."