"What's that?" demanded Peter.
"Tis the place the faeries live in, an' 'tis in Irelan'. Sure, 'tis easy gettin' the cap," continued Bridget, with conviction. "All ye need do is to say afther me, 'I wish—I wish for the wee red cap,' an' ye have it."
Bridget extended her hands, palms upward, and the others followed her example; and together they whispered: "I wish—I wish for the wee red cap."
Immediately Bridget's hands closed over a cubic inch of atmosphere, and she cried, exultantly, "Hold on to it tight an' slip it on your head quick—afore it gets from ye!"
Only seven pairs of hands obeyed—Michael protested.
"I have nothinks got," he said, disgustedly.
"Shut up!" And Bridget shook a menacing fist at him. "He's foolish entirely. He thinks he hasn't anythin' foreby he can't see it. Now, all together, 'We wish—'"
"Can we go 'thout any clothes?" interrupted Susan. "We'd feel awful queer in nightshirts."
"Don't ye worry, darlin'. Like as not when we get there the queen herself 'll open a monsthrous big chest where they keeps all the faery clothes, an' let us choose anythin' at all we wants to wear."
"Pants?" queried Peter, eagerly.