“Wrong! Wrong!” jeered the Kobold--and was no longer there. But a little breeze rustled in the elm trees and brought a faint hissing message to Wendell’s ears, just as the rushes whispered the fatal secret of the barber of King Midas:-- “One more chance! One more chance!” Wendell went on dejectedly to school. 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!