“Can I be of any assistance?” asked a friendly voice. It came from a little being perched on the desk in front of him, who certainly had not been there a moment before. He was about the size of a two-year-old child, but he had the face of an old man, a genial old man with twinkling eyes. His body was very round and quite filled his suit of blue knitted jersey, and his arms and legs were long and spindling.
“For goodness’ sake, who are you?” gasped Wendell.
“I’m a Pixie,” said the being.
“You are?” said Wendell. “I didn’t know there were any—out of fairy stories.”
“But I’m in a fairy story,” explained the Pixie politely. “I’m in the same fairy story you’re in.”
“Am I in one?” said the startled Wendell.
“Since last night,” declared the Pixie. “You wished to be, you know, on the Wishing Stone, after you had run around it nine times. It’s a sure charm.”
“The Wishing Stone! Is that the old Wishing Stone—the alley post?”
“Somewhat fallen into disuse,” assented the Pixie, “but never-the-less the Wishing Stone.”
“Well, I never!” said Wendell.