CHAPTER IX

THE BREAKING OF THE CHARM

Several days passed by. No inspiration came to Wendell. The Pixie had no suggestion to offer, only unsympathetic criticism:--“You might have known that was too subtle for him. He’s no deep thinker. _I_ could have told you.” His mother grew anxious. “You mustn’t study so hard, dear,” she said. “You should have been out playing with the boys instead of poring over that Memorial History of Boston this afternoon. Yes, I know it is fascinating reading, especially the earlier chapters, but you must think of your health, dear.” Cousin Virginia looked at Wendell solicitously, and Wendell knew she meant to be funny again.

This was Saturday evening, and the family had just settled down in the library with the _Transcript_, each with a section. Alden had the news; Otis, the sporting page; his father was perusing the editorials, his mother was reading the religious items. Cousin Virginia dabbled a few moments in the theatrical columns, like a canary unwilling to get wet all over in his china tub, and then laid down her section, suppressed a yawn, and said,

“Why does all Boston find its greatest dissipation Saturday night in reading the Saturday evening _Transcript_?”

“Habit, pure habit,” growled Alden, without raising his eyes.

“Not altogether habit,” said his mother, gently and seriously. “The _Transcript_, Virginia, is quite different from any other paper. It is reliable and conservative and sound.”

“You know, Virginia”--her uncle looked up for a moment with a twinkle in his eye--“good Bostonians always make a point of dying on Friday, so that their obituaries can go into the Saturday evening _Transcript_.”

“No? That _is_ consistent,” laughed Virginia. “But even the Boston children quote it. I saw the funniest little chap as I was crossing the Common to-day--a short fat little fellow, having a lot of fun with a false beard and whiskers. He was twirling around on one leg, to get dizzy, I suppose, and chanting loudly something like this, that didn’t make any sense:--

“‘_The boy--will soon--belong--to me, Unless--the_ Trans--cript _he--should see. Ha! Ha!--the ed--ito--rial page He’ll nev--er read--until--old age!_’

Would you believe it? I never would--outside of Boston.”

Wendell listened no further. He could hardly wait for his father to drop the editorial section. What a foolish old Kobold!--giving the whole thing away, just as the Pixie said he always did. Thank goodness!

Wendell remembered how his nature study teacher had told the class that even the smallest and humblest of creatures has undoubtedly some place in the scheme of things. Even Cousin Virginia had a use in the world, it would seem.

After a long while, Wendell’s father laid down the page, and Wendell picked it up inconspicuously. But not too inconspicuously for Cousin Virginia’s keen laughing eyes.

“Nice little Boston, Wendell,” she whispered to him. “The family picture is complete.”

Wendell read the page through carefully, every word,--the weather, the leaders, the paragraphs, the Nomad, Letters to the Editor, Facts and Fancies, the deaths, and the advertisements. Not one word that gave light on the definition of Boston. Wendell sat in a brown study. Presently, he went up to his room, hoping the Pixie would be there, and sure enough, he was.

“Sounds very probable,” was the Pixie’s comment, after Wendell had laid the facts before him. “Of course it doesn’t have to be to-night’s _Transcript_. In fact it couldn’t be. It must have been before he put the riddle to you, anyway. I shouldn’t be surprised if you’d hit the bull’s-eye this time. That’s just the kind of riddle he’d propose--something he read in the paper! That’s just the kind of mind he has. There are some people like that, you know, who think if they see it ‘in the paper,’ it must be true.”

“Then,” said Wendell, “you’d advise looking through the old _Transcripts_ till I find it. I could do that, I guess, at the _Transcript_ office.”

He had to wait till Monday, of course. Monday afternoon, he went down directly from school to the _Transcript_ building, which, fitly enough, occupies the historic site of the birthplace of Benjamin Franklin, the great journalist. The _Transcript_ people were most courteous and put their files at Wendell’s disposal. Through editorial page after page floundered Wendell, and if only he could have understood and remembered half that he read, he would have emerged from the newspaper office a complete specimen of the well-read Boston boy, such as his Cousin Virginia pretended to believe he already was. It was nearly dusk before his heart was lightened by a definition of Boston, this one from the pen of Oliver Herford, whom of course Wendell recognized as a delightful contributor to _St. Nicholas_. Mr. Herford, it seemed, was originally a Boston man, though now dwelling in the outlands, and, said Mr. Herford, “Boston is a center of gravity almost entirely surrounded by Newtons.”

It sounded like sense, though naturally Wendell didn’t quite understand it at first. After he had read it several times, he began to see the point. Encouraged by the views the Pixie had expressed, Wendell decided to stop right in at the Kobold’s on the way home. If he wasn’t on the slope of the hill, or if he remained invisible there, doubtless the spell that worked before would bring him to light again.

But Wendell found no need to use the spell, for the little old Kobold was out in plain sight, at least in plain sight of Wendell, though no one else appeared to notice him in the dusk of evening.

His eye lit up mockingly as Wendell approached.

“I’ve got it this time,” said Wendell. “I found it in the _Transcript_.”

“Oh, did you?” said the little old chap with less assurance than he had shown before. “What made you think of looking there?”

Wendell decided not to tell him. “Oh, I read the _Transcript_ pretty regularly,” he said. “This is the answer:--‘Boston is a center of gravity almost entirely surrounded by Newtons.’”

“You are right!” groaned the Kobold. “You are right!” and gnashed his teeth. Wendell was much interested, as he had heard of gnashing one’s teeth, but had never seen it done before; besides it cleared up that doubtful point in his mind as to whether the white-bearded Kobold had any teeth.

When the Kobold had finished gnashing, he asked Wendell very respectfully,

“By the way, can you tell me what it means?”

“It’s perfectly clear,” said Wendell. “You know the Newtons around Boston, West Newton, and Newton Center, and so on. And Isaac Newton was the man who discovered the law of gravity--of falling, you know. And some people do think there’s a lot of gravity in Boston--grave conversation, I mean. I have a cousin from New York who thinks so. So it’s a fairly good joke, you see.”

“No, I do not see,” returned the Kobold, grasping his head in both hands, “but it does not matter, I assure you. I shall not use it again under any circumstances. It is too ultra-modern. You may not have guessed it but I am a conservative.”

“I guessed the riddle, anyway,” maintained Wendell, “so where’s the Maiden?”

“She is here,” said the Kobold, looking down at the rustling leaves, where Wendell now made out the ugly shape of the frog. “Maiden, you are free.”

And there she stood, slim and beautiful in the dusk, and looked at Wendell with the utmost gratitude.

“My deliverer!” she breathed softly.

“I suppose you will have to marry her now,” said the Kobold to Wendell. “It is always customary.” Wendell was sure there was malice in the old fellow’s eye this time.

“Why--why--” he stammered, “we didn’t plan that.” And the Beauteous Maiden added quickly,

“Not yet. There are my cruel stepmother and the giant to consider. Come, sit with me on yonder bench, and we will discuss the matter.” So they moved away and left the Kobold standing there, and that was the last that Wendell saw of _him_, though for all I know, the old fellow may still be living under Flag Staff Hill on Boston Common to this very moment.

“The first thing I must do,” said the Beauteous Maiden, “is to hunt up that moving picture man and sign the contract. Then I shall be independent in case you shouldn’t succeed with my family.”

“Succeed with your family--how do you mean?” asked Wendell.

“Why, in case my cruel stepmother should work a charm on you, or in case the giant should eat you up.”

“Oh, I see,” said Wendell, “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, of course, we’ll hope for the best,” said the Beauteous Maiden. “Here is the address in Brookline. You take the car from Park Street. You know what you have to do,--rob my stepmother of the three magic gifts that give her her power as a witch,--the Cloak of Darkness, the Cap of Thought and the Book of Spells. The Book of Spells has every charm in the world.”

“Why not just take the book then?” asked Wendell.

Of course, the minute he had asked it, he knew it was a stupid question.

“Because things always go by threes, Silly,” said the Beauteous Maiden. “After the witch is powerless, your next task will be to kill the giant; and the Book of Spells will undoubtedly help you there. Now farewell, dear Deliverer. I must find that movie man.”

“Good-bye,” said Wendell. He was glad to be alone. He had a great deal to face and a great deal to plan. Besides that, he had been rubbed the wrong way by the Beauteous Maiden, who really

seemed to think it was a small thing for him to be eaten by a giant for her sake. He said as much to the Pixie, who came in that evening, tremendously interested in the answer to the Kobold’s riddle, and eager to encourage Wendell in his next adventure.