"How did you happen to be where I fell?" he asked, turning to the little man again.
"I always sleep on the sands," replied the other, wagging his head solemnly. "It's my fad. Fresh air, you know. I'm called the 'Fresh-Air Fiend.' I suppose you're a new inhabitant. You seem rather queer."
"I'm made of gingerbread," said John.
"Well, that certainly is unusual, so I've no doubt you will be warmly welcomed in our Island," replied the man.
"But where am I?" asked John, looking around again with a puzzled expression.
"This is the Isle of Phreex," answered the other, "and it is inhabited by unusual people. I'm one, and you're another."
He made such a droll face as he said this that the gingerbread man could not resist smiling, but it startled him to hear another laugh at his back—a sound merry and sweet, such as a bird trills. He swung around quickly and saw a child standing upon the sands, where the rays of the sun fell brightly upon its little form. And then the glass eyes of the gingerbread man grew big, and stood out from his cake face in a way that fully expressed his astonishment.
"It's a Vision!" he exclaimed.
"No, it's the Cherub—whom we call Chick," answered the big-headed man, carelessly.