“One good job done,” said Wendell to himself. “I won’t have to sleep with that in the room to-night.”
“Well, old chap, I guess I’ll go to bed now,” he said, yawning, to the Pixie, “and if you will call me, say about eleven-thirty, I’ll be much obliged.”
As he slid under the bed clothes and sprawled out in solid comfort, his foot touched something cold, clammy, repellent. He barely repressed a shriek. He threw back the bed clothes. Yes, the frog again!
“Now, how did he ever get there?” cried Wendell in bewilderment. “I’m sure he couldn’t open the door. It is magic, for sure.”
“She, you mean. You can’t shake her,” rejoined the Pixie maliciously. “It’s your fairy tale, you know, and you are The Rescuer.”
“Well, what shall I do with her now?” asked Wendell in despair. “Do you suppose she’d stay here if I went into Cousin Virginia’s room?”
“Not for a moment,” said the Pixie. “I tell you. You put her under the down puff, on the foot of the bed, and I’ll keep an eye on her.”
It seemed about five minutes after Wendell was in bed, when he awoke suddenly and found that the Pixie was pounding him severely.
“Hold on! Hold on!” he called. “What’s the matter?”
“The matter is, I’ve been trying for the last ten minutes to wake you,” said the Pixie, exasperated. “The Sleeping Beauty had nothing on you. Hurry up, now, or you won’t get there at midnight.”