"And—and—I didn't say good-bye to Captain Blizzard or Mr. Finney. They were wonderful to me, really they were! And"—his voice suddenly became very small and high, disappearing to a whisper at the end—"and Becky and Ned and dear Amos—"
He stood there against the door, swallowing hard with his head down, his stomach and his throat a mass of hateful knots and the whole of him swamped with unhappiness. Mr. Wicker had never moved, his elbows on the arms of his chair, and his folded hands just touching his chin. At last Chris whispered: "Does it have to be?"
"It has to be," said Mr. Wicker.
Without a word, Chris took the folded clothes that seemed so unfamiliar off the stool and dressed behind the other leather chair, his lower lip trembling. Mechanically, as boys will, he shifted everything from his pockets to those of the trousers he had just put on. With careful slow gestures he folded up the knee breeches, the full-sleeved shirt, the long white hose and silver buckled shoes, the flare-backed jacket last of all, and put them where his clothes had been.
Mr. Wicker then spoke, getting slowly to his feet and standing with his back to the fire.
"I am afraid I shall have to have the leather pouch, Christopher," he said, holding out his hand. Chris took it off and put it in the long, strong hand of the magician.
"More than that," Mr. Wicker said, putting the pouch in his pocket, "I shall have to take everything from you that you have gained here, Christopher." He paused. "All but one thing which you may choose and keep—one ability." He waited. "Choose well."
Chris looked up at the man he admired and respected and had grown to love, and pondered deeply.