The Pixie looked delighted, but he tried to assume a nonchalant air to hide his triumph. He swung one knee over the other carelessly and tilted his chin. “We-ell!” said Wendell, a bit discouraged. But the thought came to him that in every fairy story the knight who passes the first of three tests always squeaks through the other two also, so of course there must be some way out. “I’ll have to be going,” said the Pixie in an offhand way. “You’ll find your arithmetic paper in the desk drawer. See you to-morrow night.” “Hold on,” said Wendell. “You forgot the aeroplane.” “Forgot it? How?” “Aren’t you going to take it along?” “Good gracious, no,” returned the Pixie peevishly. “I can’t take care of all the truck I tell people to bring me. I don’t run a junk shop. Keep it yourself. I don’t want it.” Now that was great luck for Wendell. It brought a large amount of pleasure into an existence which would otherwise have been most cheerless; for the unsolved problem loomed before him of finding an acorn on Acorn Street. He chose to go through Willow Street on his way to school next morning, which brought him of course to the head of Acorn Street. There was the neat little sign fastened on the brick wall,--a bunch of three acorns and the name in artistic lettering,--evidently the creation of an artist brain and fashioned by a master hand. Wendell had an inspiration. He would cut out one of those acorns and take it to the Pixie as a last resort. Of course, he might be arrested and put in jail for mutilating a street sign; and after all his trouble, the Pixie might not consider it an adequate acorn; still the suggestion was something to fall back upon. Standing at the top of the extremely steep slope which is Acorn Street, Wendell surveyed the prospect doubtfully. He saw a narrow cobble-stoned roadway; on his left, a trim row of doll houses, each with its projecting doorstep and old-fashioned scraper, its spotless white door and shining brass knocker, and a narrow brick sidewalk where two thin people could just walk abreast; on his right, a long brick wall, broken by neat back doors, and a still narrower brick sidewalk where only one very thin person could walk abreast. Nowhere was there a tree, nor room to plant a tree. There were a few straggling blades of grass between the cobble-stones and between the bricks, but not a crevice large enough to accommodate a single acorn. A postman came along, whistling cheerily. Wendell stood off the brick pavement to let him pass. Perhaps the postman could help. “This is Acorn Street, isn’t it?” said Wendell. “Some people call it that,” responded the postman jokingly. “Millionaires’ Alley, _I_ call it.” “Why, are they all millionaires here?” asked Wendell.