“Well, after school to-morrow, you get into your oldest clothes, and I’ll come around.”
Wendell hurried home the next afternoon and hunted out an old suit that he had withheld from the Morgan Memorial Goodwill bag, in case of a painting job or something. Hardly had he got into these clothes, when he heard an impatient honking in the street. Looking out, he saw in front of the curb a huge Cadillac with the driver’s seat occupied by a young chap in workingman’s clothes who grinned up at him and beckoned frantically.
Wendell went down.
“I wouldn’t have known you,” he said. “It’s a fine disguise.”
“I think it’s rather neat,” returned the Pixie with quiet pride. He had a young, pleasant, intelligent face, and no one could possibly have taken him for a Pixie. He was very suitably dressed in khaki trousers, blue coat, tan shoes, and visored cap, all somewhat creased and soiled, and a bundle of tools lay on the seat beside him.
“Where did you get the car?” asked Wendell.
“Part of the outfit,” responded the Pixie. “I couldn’t pass for a plumber, these days, could I, unless I went to my job in a high-powered touring car?”
The Pixie guided the car deftly down the hill, and turned from the dimpling blue Charles River into Beacon Street. They spun out over the smooth pavement through Boston and into Brookline, consulted the address that the Beauteous Maiden had written down, conferred with a policeman or two, and at length turned into one of the pretty winding roads that net the Boston suburbs.
“That’s it,” said the Pixie. “There’s the number.”
It was an attractive modern house of the near-Colonial style of architecture, white-painted, with green blinds, a brick porch, a very well-kept lawn, the whole tasteful, but not pretentious.