“I don’t know what I want you to do,” returned the Pixie. “How should I know? Take a chance. Be a sport.”
“All right,” said Wendell. “I will. Here are the problems.”
“Look in your desk,” said the Pixie immediately.
Wendell opened it. There lay three sheets of large pad paper, covered with problems completely solved. Wendell’s name and the date were written at the top in his own handwriting. The work was done neatly enough to pass, but not so excessively neatly as to arouse suspicion.
“Well, you are some little fiend at arithmetic,” pronounced Wendell with great relief.
“Glad you are satisfied,” said the Pixie. “Of course you understand that if you can’t perform my tasks, you belong to me.”
“Well, I might as well belong to you as to Miss Ounce,” ruminated Wendell. “Come on with your first task. I suppose it will be water in a sieve from the Charles River or something like that. They always are.”
“I should say not,” said the Pixie with scorn in his voice. “That might be all very well for the old Kobold that lives under Flag Staff Hill. It’s just his style, in fact. He’s using the same stuff he did when Merlin was practicing. No, I like to advance with the best thought of the time. I’m no back number. Trust me, I’ll find something up to date.”
“Well, speed up,” said Wendell. “What do you want me to do?”
“How should I know?” said the Pixie. “Give me time. I’ll drop around to-night and let you know.”