“Do you want a trick dog?” questioned Wendell. “Yes, I do.” “Well, it is a trick dog,” said Wendell. “Just you get out here,” for meantime they were nearing Park Street, “and I’ll show him to you. I live right near here.” “What tricks can he do?” asked the boy. “You wait and ask him,” said Wendell. Once out of the Subway, Wendell left the boy on a bench on the Common, and sprinted across the green expanse, in spite of the official sign, KEEP OFF THE GRASS IF YOU WANT TO ROAM JOIN THE NAVY He shot around the corner of his street, circled the Wishing Stone rapidly nine times, climbed on top of it and said to himself, “I wish for a trick dog that will do any trick you tell him to.” “Woof! Woof!” said an ingratiating voice near him, and there was the dog. He was of no special breed, just a lost-dog breed of mongrel, but he had the look in his eye that means a dog will do anything in the world for you if he loves you. “Sit up and beg, old fellow,” commanded Wendell, and the dog sat up with an excited little bark. “Heel,” ordered Wendell, who had no time to lose, and the two chased excitedly through the streets to the Common, and there, to Wendell’s relief, waited the impatient boy with his aeroplane. “Here he is,” said Wendell. “Here’s your trick dog.” The freckle-faced boy looked him over critically. “He ain’t much to look at,” he said. “Well,” said Wendell, “you didn’t say you wanted him to take a prize in a beauty contest. You asked for a trick dog.” “What can he do?” asked the boy. “You just try him,” said Wendell. “Dead dog!” said the freckle-faced boy. The dog dropped flat and rolled over motionless. He didn’t even blink an eye. “Live dog!” said the boy, and up he jumped and frisked and wagged and was very much alive. “Is that all he can do?” asked the boy. “No, he can do any trick,” said Wendell. “I don’t know ’em all myself. He knew ’em when I got him.” “Where’d you get him?” asked the boy suspiciously. “Given to me,” said Wendell. “Let’s have the aeroplane.” The boy hesitated. Perhaps he was afraid that the dog had been stolen or found by Wendell, and might soon be claimed by the police. But the dog himself settled the question. He jumped up on the freckle-faced boy and “woof”-ed engagingly; and when the freckle-faced boy stooped to pat him, he licked the boy’s freckles so warmly and wetly and scratchily and lovingly that the boy hastily handed the aeroplane to Wendell and gathered the dog right up in his arms; and the bargain was complete. Wendell had a few pangs himself. The dog had found a warm place in his heart too. But he consoled himself with the reminder that he could wish for another just like him any time. And he had the aeroplane. He took it over to the parade ground on the other side of the Common, and tried it out. It flew beautifully. On its own merits, apart from Wendell’s need to satisfy the Pixie’s demand, it was a very desirable possession.