“I will. I’ll be glad to,” returned Wendell hurriedly. The frog was already on his nerves. “And only two more guesses,” added the Kobold. “I know,” said Wendell meekly. He was very much mortified to have failed so quickly through his own assurance. He went back through the silent streets, let himself in quietly and bolted the back door, took off his shoes and groped up to his room, where the Pixie sat awaiting him. CHAPTER VIII COUSIN VIRGINIA HAS A CALLER “Well, you deserved to lose,” said the Pixie when he had heard the whole story, “answering right off like that on the spur of the moment. You have to think these things over a bit. Besides, the Hub has been moving slowly westward since Holmes’ time. It’s nearer Chicago, now, I believe. But what did I tell you about old White-Hairs? Isn’t he a back number? Trying to do business in the twentieth century the way he used to do it with those princes in slashed doublets! Why doesn’t he wake up and hear the birdies sing?” “How’s the frog?” asked Wendell anxiously. “An awful nuisance,” responded the Pixie frankly. “I think she’s thirsty but she won’t drink.” “Oh, they can’t drink, you know,” explained Wendell. “They take it in through the skin. That mug is too small. Here, I’ll fill the basin and put her in.” That seemed to content the frog. It sat and soaked and absorbed and goggled at Wendell, who regarded it moodily. “If I can’t do anything more for you,” said the Pixie, “I’ll move on. Hope you guess the riddle.” “Thanks, old fellow,” said Wendell soberly. He was very sleepy and discouraged. But the frog looked a bit cheerier. Hardly was Wendell in bed when he dropped off to sleep, and five minutes later, blop! the frog leaped from the basin and landed on the boy’s face, all wet and soggy and cold. Wendell, half asleep, struck out in self-defense, and landed a whacking blow on the poor reptile, that sent it halfway across the room. He realized instantly what he had done, and much ashamed of himself, he turned on the light, located the panting frog, and tucked it under the down quilt at the foot of the bed. Bitterly he regretted that he had not made an appointment with the Kobold to return the creature the very next morning. When he left for school, he hid the frog away again in his stocking, in a chiffonier drawer, but even his preoccupation with the Boston riddle did not entirely obliterate his uneasy fear that the frog might escape or be turned out of the house in his absence, and thus plunge him into some other awful rescuing problem.