"All right. Put the hat on. Pick up the stick like I had it. That's it, one fork in each hand. Now then:
Seeker of souls, lost boys and girls,
Of objects and of wells,
Find his gate between the worlds
Before the curfew knells;
Find the cat who should reside
In the mortal world Inside."
The divining rod started forward with a terrific jerk, and Hugh plunged after it. The boy ran alongside him and snatched off the magician's cap. "Thanks," Hugh shouted. "You're welcome," the boy called after him. "Good luck, sir, and thank you for holding my dog." Then the stick hauled Hugh around a corner, and the dog-owner was gone; but in Hugh's mind there remained a split-second glimpse of a strange smile, mischievous, kindly, and agelessly wise.
The cherub had not specified in his incantation which senses the rod was to use, and so it had chosen the quickest one—intuition, or supersensory-perception, or sixth-sense—Hugh had heard it called many things, but until he held the ends of the fork he never quite comprehended what it was.