“Well, after school to-morrow, you get into your oldest clothes, and I’ll come around.” Wendell hurried home the next afternoon and hunted out an old suit that he had withheld from the Morgan Memorial Goodwill bag, in case of a painting job or something. Hardly had he got into these clothes, when he heard an impatient honking in the street. Looking out, he saw in front of the curb a huge Cadillac with the driver’s seat occupied by a young chap in workingman’s clothes who grinned up at him and beckoned frantically. Wendell went down. “I wouldn’t have known you,” he said. “It’s a fine disguise.” “I think it’s rather neat,” returned the Pixie with quiet pride. He had a young, pleasant, intelligent face, and no one could possibly have taken him for a Pixie. He was very suitably dressed in khaki trousers, blue coat, tan shoes, and visored cap, all somewhat creased and soiled, and a bundle of tools lay on the seat beside him. “Where did you get the car?” asked Wendell. “Part of the outfit,” responded the Pixie. “I couldn’t pass for a plumber, these days, could I, unless I went to my job in a high-powered touring car?” The Pixie guided the car deftly down the hill, and turned from the dimpling blue Charles River into Beacon Street. They spun out over the smooth pavement through Boston and into Brookline, consulted the address that the Beauteous Maiden had written down, conferred with a policeman or two, and at length turned into one of the pretty winding roads that net the Boston suburbs. “That’s it,” said the Pixie. “There’s the number.” It was an attractive modern house of the near-Colonial style of architecture, white-painted, with green blinds, a brick porch, a very well-kept lawn, the whole tasteful, but not pretentious. The Pixie rang the bell. After a few moments, the door was opened by a young lady, who, while not positively deformed, was so very, very plain, that Wendell knew at once that she was the Ugly Stepsister. “Leak in the bathroom?” asked the Pixie, with a concise, business-like air. “I didn’t know it. I’ll ask Mummer,” said the young lady. She left the door ajar, and they heard her calling, “Mummer!” as she retreated to the back of the house. “I might slip in now, don’t you think?” asked Wendell. “No, no!” whispered the Pixie sternly. “Wait and walk in like a gentleman. No sneaking when you’re with me, young man.” Wendell felt somewhat abashed, and yet resentful. “I’d like to know if it isn’t sneaking to--” he began, but just then a door opened from the kitchen and the Cruel Stepmother came forward. She had projecting teeth, and a hooked nose and chin, and her hair straggled uncombed about her face. “What do you want?” she said. “Leak in the bathroom,” said the Pixie briefly. “Your husband telephoned.” “Oh,” said she. “Right up the stairs there.”