He fell silent, observing the boy sitting on the edge of the big chair. Mr. Wicker looked, as if casually, at the clothes Chris now wore and which fitted him as though made to his measure. What he saw seemed to please the old man for he nodded his bald head and his wrinkles multiplied themselves across his face in a way Chris took to be his smile. At last he spoke again, and his voice was strangely gentle and kind. So kind that the forlornness Chris had momentarily forgotten at the mystery of his position, the puzzlement and lost feeling that reclaimed him instantly should he allow himself to wonder at how he could get back again into his own life and time, was reawakened by the something he heard in Mr. Wicker's voice. The tears gathered in his throat and he had to swallow and cough several times before he could reply with any degree of clearness. [Illustration] "Feel? Well--all right, I guess, in a way. But there's a sort of spinning in my head and my stomach if I try to figure any of this out. I just don't get it." He shook his head dubiously. "I feel alive all right, and the food tasted good just now, but how in the world can all the changes come about, or be? And there's something I should see to, at home--" All at once he needed desperately to know how his mother was, that morning. He stood up abruptly. "If I can just go now, please?" Chris asked politely but firmly. "It's been very interesting, but I--" His throat tightened up again and he made a helpless gesture with his hand, and looking toward the window, wondered if he could jump out into the flower beds and be off. Mr. Wicker's voice, soft but with such authority that one did not question it, came again, and it had a healing in its sound. "Sit down, Christopher my lad," he said, and his eyes were kind, intent and eager. "We have much to talk of, you and I. But first, your mind and heart shall be put at ease. Do you know who I am?" Restive and anxious to be off, Chris nevertheless found it necessary to reply. "You sell old stuff. That's all I know," he answered, beginning to feel a trifle surly. Mr. Wicker nodded, tapping his fingertips together. "Yes," he agreed, "I sell old things--in _your_ time. But now--in _this_ time, what do you know of me?" As he spoke there was a change of tone, as if a younger man was speaking, and in spite of his impatience to get home, Chris looked up sharply. Mr. Wicker was leaning forward, and Chris felt himself immovable under the vigor of those dark eyes. "Nothing, sir," he heard himself saying, not taking his eyes from those of the man before him. "I am a shipowner, Christopher, for one thing," Mr. Wicker drew a slow breath. "A merchant trading in tobacco, cotton, corn, and flour. But I am also--" he paused as if to give Chris time to hear each word, "I am also quite a fine magician," said Mr. Wicker. Chris leaned back, disappointed and scornful. "Rabbits out of hats?" he inquired.