Without a word, Chris took the folded clothes that seemed so unfamiliar off the stool and dressed behind the other leather chair, his lower lip trembling. Mechanically, as boys will, he shifted everything from his pockets to those of the trousers he had just put on. With careful slow gestures he folded up the knee breeches, the full-sleeved shirt, the long white hose and silver buckled shoes, the flare-backed jacket last of all, and put them where his clothes had been. Mr. Wicker then spoke, getting slowly to his feet and standing with his back to the fire. "I am afraid I shall have to have the leather pouch, Christopher," he said, holding out his hand. Chris took it off and put it in the long, strong hand of the magician. [Illustration] "More than that," Mr. Wicker said, putting the pouch in his pocket, "I shall have to take everything from you that you have gained here, Christopher." He paused. "All but one thing which you may choose and keep--one ability." He waited. "Choose well." Chris looked up at the man he admired and respected and had grown to love, and pondered deeply. To make a boat or eagle or dolphin out of rope? Very tempting! How the kids would envy him! Or change himself in other shapes? So useful. He hesitated. "I'd like to be able to come back, sir," he said, and his growing grief at those he must leave prevented him from saying anything else. Mr. Wicker's face broke into a radiant smile and he held out his firm hand. "So you shall, Christopher, so you shall! And you shall remember it all, I promise you. That too, you can have." He stepped forward and put his hands on the boy's shoulders. His eyes were deeply sad although his lips still smiled. "And now," said Mr. Wicker, "good soldier that you are for General Washington and for your country, all that you learned must leave you and remain with me." Mr. Wicker put his hand briefly on Chris's head, let it slip to cover his eyes--so lightly it was scarcely felt--and then to cover his mouth. Chris waited, but he felt no different. "Be a fly!" commanded the magician. Chris searched his mind. There were words to say, and you thought hard. He tried once more, and a third time, and then wordlessly shook his head. "Make a rope boat!" said Mr. Wicker. Chris took the rope and as it hung from his hands he wondered how one set about it--he _had_ known how, once upon a time. He let the inert rope fall to the floor. Mr. Wicker put a hand on his shoulder and turned him toward the door. "Come, my boy," he said. CHAPTER 36 The shop was dark but headlights flashed by out on Wisconsin Avenue, glaring over the meager display of objects in Mr. Wicker's window. There seemed even fewer objects than before, Chris thought, for the carved figure of the Nubian boy was gone, and so was the coil of dusty rope. The ship in the glass bottle was still there, however.