“Why, it came jumping down the hill from the Soldiers’ Monument. When I first saw it, it was near the top of the hill.”
“Of course it was!” cried the Pixie, slapping his leg. “That’s where the old Kobold lives. This is just like his work. He never had an original idea in his life.”
“You mean—?” questioned Wendell.
“I mean this isn’t a real frog at all. It’s a person changed into a frog—by enchantment, you know. He’s always doing it, pulling that frog stuff. Why, I can count one, two, three—seven times anyway he’s used that same spell since Cinderella’s godmother first suggested it. I should think he’d be tired of it himself.”
The frog sat and blinked at them with its goggle eyes. Wendell didn’t like its stare. He began to feel uneasy. Suppose it was enchanted. Suppose it should go back to its natural shape. He somehow felt sure he shouldn’t like that shape, whatever it might be.
“Of course, this complicates things for you a bit,” said the Pixie briskly.
“For me?” faltered Wendell.
“Yes, you’ll have to break the spell, you know. You seem to forget this is your fairy story, young man.”
“But how?” queried Wendell. “It seems to me this business of living in a fairy story is just nothing but getting out of the frying pan into the fire.”
“Well, you wished it, you know,” said the Pixie. He uncrossed his legs, crossed them the other way, gazed around the room, hummed a little tune. He seemed to be washing his hands of all responsibility.