"I don't know so much about that," said the wymp; "if you had the steering to do, you wouldn't mind a candle or two to help you."
"Do you steer by the points of the compass?" asked Jerry, eagerly. Some one had given him a compass on his last birthday, and he had steered by it ever since. Indeed, he had arrived late at school several times, through steering his way by the points of the compass.
"Certainly not," said the wymp; "when you are sailing on a comet, you steer by the points of the comet, of course." Just then, he gave a sharp turn to the points of the comet, and it sailed right out of the blue darkness and took them into the dim mysterious greyness of the country of the stars.
"They are like real stars," murmured Chubby, for she had begun to have serious doubts whether the stars she had painted on the kite were not wrong after all. It was very comforting to find that the stars that were whizzing past them in hundreds and thousands looked just like the stars she had been accustomed to see on Christmas trees, and had such sharp points that it would not have been at all pleasant to run against one of them by mistake. Indeed, the wymp had as much as he could do to steer through the country of the stars without coming into collision with them, although the comet did not make half so much commotion in the sky as Jerry's kite had done. But then, Jerry's kite had never been trained to be a comet, and that made all the difference.
It grew lighter and lighter as they came nearer the moon, and even the stars began to look pale in the white light that was shining so close to the edge of their country. The stars were growing fewer, too, for stars naturally prefer to shine in a place where they can be seen, and just here, at the edge of their country, they could hardly be seen at all. Then the wymp gave another turn to the points of the comet, and it glided gently from the country of the stars into the pale white country of the moon.
"It's like being inside a great flame that isn't hot," whispered Chubby.
Even the wymp had to admit that the country of the moon had something in its favour. "For those who like light," he allowed, "the moon is all very well. For my part, I prefer Wympland, where there isn't any light at all. You can't say that of any other country on either side of the sun!"
"I don't want to say it," objected Chubby; "I am very glad there is some light in my country."
"But there isn't," retorted the wymp. "There's only other people's light in your country! Where would you be, if you didn't borrow bits of light from the countries of the sky, eh?"
Chubby thought it would be wiser to change the conversation. "If you please," she said politely, "can you tell me when we shall get to the moon?"