Three rousing cheers for Cousin Virginia!
He went to bed happy that night. Even the presence of the loathsome frog was endurable. To-morrow he would return the creature to the Kobold, and at the same time fling the answer to his riddle in his teeth—if he had any teeth. It would seem probable that a Kobold with so much white beard would be too old to have teeth.
The Kobold was waiting for him on the slope of Flag Staff Hill next morning. So cleverly did his velvet suit take on the soft tone of the elm trunks, that no one of the busy passersby, hurrying on to business through the Common, discerned him there under the trees, though Wendell saw him clearly. Or was it that he made himself invisible to other eyes?
“I’ve brought your frog,” said Wendell, drawing a long breath. He handed the stocking over to the Kobold, and the frog leaped out and vanished among the fallen leaves.
“What is Boston?” asked the Kobold mockingly.
“Boston,” said Wendell with assurance, “is a state of mind.”
“Wrong! Wrong!” jeered the Kobold—and was no longer there. But a little breeze rustled in the elm trees and brought a faint hissing message to Wendell’s ears, just as the rushes whispered the fatal secret of the barber of King Midas:—
“One more chance! One more chance!”
Wendell went on dejectedly to school.