He woke with a sense of calamity hanging over him. Really, it was almost as bad as having fractions on his mind. He was so serious at breakfast that Cousin Virginia asked him if he was practicing to be a Puritan Ancestor at a fancy-dress ball. This levity seemed to Wendell ill-timed. The brooding anxiety lingered with him all through school time. What if he couldn’t do the task? What would it be like to belong to a Pixie? He didn’t like the prospect. He came out of his school on Beacon Street, still with the cloud lowering over him. He felt desperate. He thought of going over to the train yards of South Station and stealing a ride in an empty cattle-car bound for the prairies of the West. He meditated stowing away on a ship bound for Timbuctoo or Guam or somewhere. Just then a tempting truck passed him “south”-bound on Beacon Street. It was low and it was going slowly, and altogether it offered just the right opportunity to “hook” a ride. Wendell seized the opportunity and the truck together; and dodged down inside unseen by the driver. In Allston, Wendell dropped out again. His mind was somewhat relieved by this pleasant adventure, and he didn’t wish to get too far from home. He hailed an electric for Park Street. Now, you may not believe it, but the first thing he saw when he got on the car was an aeroplane--a toy aeroplane about four feet long, carried in the arms of a freckle-faced boy. Wendell sat down by the boy. “Does it go?” he said. “Sure it does,” said the freckle-faced boy. “How?” said Wendell. “You wind it up,” said the boy. It was apparently a perfect model of a large aeroplane, a fascinating toy. The freckle-faced boy let him hold it, let him examine it closely. It was a joy to see such a perfect mechanical model on that small scale; but suddenly it brought a leaden lump to Wendell’s heart. It reminded him of his impossible task. “Where you taking it?” asked Wendell. “Home. I live in Medford.” “Change at Park Street?” said Wendell. “Scollay Square,” said the boy. They were now opposite the Public Garden. “I’ll bet it can travel,” said Wendell. “You’ve said it,” replied the boy. “But,” he added, grinning, as the electric sloped down into the Subway, “this is the first time it ever traveled underground.” Wendell nearly bounced from his seat. “Say!” he almost yelled. “What’ll you take for that aeroplane?” “Don’t want to sell it,” said the boy. “I just got it.” “But if you should sell it,” persisted Wendell. “But I ain’t a-goin’ to sell it,” said the freckle-faced boy. “But if you ever _should_ want to sell it,” reiterated Wendell. “Say, there’s something, you know, you’d rather have.” “Well, I don’t know. What, f’r instance?” “I’ll give you anything you like for it,” offered Wendell, who was rapidly formulating a plan in his mind. “Wouldn’t you like a gun, now?” “I’ve got a gun,” said the boy. “Don’t you want a dog?” pleaded Wendell. “Is it a trick dog?” asked the boy.