His teacher, who bore the singularly happy name of Miss Ounce, left him alone in the deserted school-room. She had a lesson to give in another part of the building. Wendell pulled his book in front of him, flipped the pages open to the proper place, ran his fingers through his hair, and remained in that attitude, which may have denoted either deep concentration or utter dejection. He read the first problem through twice, and it had no more meaning for him than Dante’s Inferno in the original tongue. “Jee-rusalem!” he said aloud after a long pause. “Can I be of any assistance?” asked a friendly voice. It came from a little being perched on the desk in front of him, who certainly had not been there a moment before. He was about the size of a two-year-old child, but he had the face of an old man, a genial old man with twinkling eyes. His body was very round and quite filled his suit of blue knitted jersey, and his arms and legs were long and spindling. “For goodness’ sake, who are you?” gasped Wendell. “I’m a Pixie,” said the being. “You are?” said Wendell. “I didn’t know there were any--out of fairy stories.” “But I’m _in_ a fairy story,” explained the Pixie politely. “I’m in the same fairy story you’re in.” “Am I in one?” said the startled Wendell. “Since last night,” declared the Pixie. “You wished to be, you know, on the Wishing Stone, after you had run around it nine times. It’s a sure charm.” “The Wishing Stone! Is that the old Wishing Stone--the alley post?” “Somewhat fallen into disuse,” assented the Pixie, “but never-the-less the Wishing Stone.” “Well, I never!” said Wendell. It was so stupendous, such an unbelievable piece of good fortune, that at first he did not grasp its possibilities. Then his eye fell on the open book lying on his desk. “Say!” he exclaimed. “If that’s all true, if I’m really living in a fairy story, there ought to be some way of settling junk like this in short order.” He gave a vindictive thump to the arithmetic. “That’s what I came for,” said the Pixie. “I thought I saw a business opening here.” “You mean--” faltered Wendell. “Why, I’ll do your problems for you. That’s easy. And you do three tasks for me.” “Three?” “Yes, it’s always three,” said the Pixie. “Say, I think I ought to get more than just these problems for three. I think you ought to do my home work till the end of the term.” “Just as soon,” said the Pixie. “No trouble to me. Is it a bargain?” “But what will you want me to do?” said Wendell. “I don’t know what I want you to do,” returned the Pixie. “How should I know? Take a chance. Be a sport.” “All right,” said Wendell. “I will. Here are the problems.” “Look in your desk,” said the Pixie immediately. Wendell opened it. There lay three sheets of large pad paper, covered with problems completely solved. Wendell’s name and the date were written at the top in his own handwriting. The work was done neatly enough to pass, but not so excessively neatly as to arouse suspicion.