I
JIMMIEBOY MAKES HIS ACQUAINTANCE
The telephone was ringing, of that there was no doubt, and yet no one went to see what was wanted, which was rather strange. The cook had a great way of rushing up from the kitchen to where the 'phone stood in the back hall whenever she heard its sounding bells, because a great many of her friends were in the habit of communicating with her over the wire, and she didn't like to lose the opportunity to hear all that was going on in the neighborhood. And then, too, Jimmieboy's papa was at work in the library not twenty feet away, and surely one would hardly suppose that he would let it ring as often as Jimmieboy had heard it this time—I think there were as many as six distinct rings—without going to ask the person at the other end what on earth he was making all that noise about. So it was altogether queer that after sounding six times the bell should fail to summon any one to see what was wanted. Finally it rang loud and strong for a seventh time, and, although he wasn't exactly sure about it, Jimmieboy thought he heard a whisper repeated over and over again, which said, "Hullo, Jimmieboy! Jimmieboy, Hullo! Come to the telephone a moment, for I want to speak to you."
Whether there really was any such whisper as that or not, Jimmieboy did not delay an instant in rushing out into the back hall and climbing upon a chair that stood there to answer whoever it was that was so anxious to speak to somebody.
"Hullo, you!" he said, as he got his little mouth over the receiver.
"Hullo!" came the whisper he thought he had heard before. "Is that you Jimmieboy?"
"Yes. It's me," returned Jimmieboy. "Who are you?"
"I'm me, too," answered the whisper with a chuckle. "Some people call me Hello Hithere Whoareyou, but my real name is Impy. I am the Imp of the Telephone, and I live up here in this little box right over where your mouth is."
"Dear me!" ejaculated Jimmieboy in pleased surprise. "I didn't know anybody ever lived in that funny little closet, though I had noticed it had a door with a key-hole in it."
"Yes, I can see you now through the key-hole, but you can't see me," said the Imp, "and I'm real sorry you can't, for I am ever so pretty. I have beautiful mauve-colored eyes with eyelashes of pink, long and fine as silk. My eyebrows are sort of green like the lawn gets after a sun shower in the late spring. My hair, which is hardly thicker than the fuzzy down or the downy fuzz—as you prefer it—of a peach, is colored like the lilac, and my clothes are a bright red, and I have a pair of gossamer wings to fly with."
"Isn't there any chance of my ever seeing you?" asked Jimmieboy.
"Why, of course," said the Imp. "Just the best chance in all the world. Do you remember the little key your papa uses to lock his new cigar box with?"
"The little silver key he carries on the end of his watch chain?" queried Jimmieboy eagerly.
"The very same," said the Imp. "That key is the only key in this house that will fit this lock. If you can get it and will open the door you can see me, and if you will eat a small apple I give you when we do meet, you will smallen up until you are big enough to get into my room here and see what a wonderful place it is. Do you think you can get the key?"
"I don't know," Jimmieboy answered. "I've asked papa to let me have it several times already, but he has always said no."
"It looks hopeless, doesn't it?" returned the Imp. "But I'll tell you how I used to do with my dear old father when he wouldn't let me have things I wanted. I'd just ask him the same old question over and over again in thirteen different ways, and if I didn't get a yes in answer to one of 'em, why, I'd know it was useless; but the thirteenth generally brought me the answer I wanted."
"I suppose that would be a good way," said Jimmieboy, "but I really don't see how I could ask for the key in thirteen different ways."
"You don't, eh?" said the Imp, in a tone of disappointment. "Well, I am surprised. You are the first little boy I have had anything to do with who couldn't ask for a thing, no matter what it was, in thirteen different ways. Why, it's as easy as falling up stairs."
"Tell me a few ways," suggested Jimmieboy.
"Well, first there is the direct way," returned the Imp. "You say just as plainly as can be, 'Daddy, I want the key to your cigar box.' He will reply, 'No, you are too young to smoke,' and that will make your mamma laugh, which will be a good thing in case your papa is feeling a little cross when you ask him. There is nothing that puts a man in a good humor so quickly as laughing at his jokes. That's way number one," continued the Imp. "You wait five minutes before you try the second way, which is, briefly, to climb upon your father's knee and say, 'There are two ends to your watch chain, aren't there, papa?' He'll say, 'Yes; everything has two ends except circles, which haven't any;' then you laugh, because he may think that's funny, and then you say, 'You have a watch at one end, haven't you?' His answer will be, 'Yes; it has been there fifteen years, and although it has been going all that time it hasn't gone yet.' You must roar with laughter at that, and then ask him what he has at the other end, and he'll say, 'The key to my cigar box,' to which you must immediately reply, 'Give it to me, won't you?' And so you go on, leading up to that key in everything you do or say for the whole day, if it takes that long to ask for it thirteen times. If he doesn't give it to you then, you might as well give up, for you'll never get it. It always worked when I was little, but it may have been because I put the thirteenth question in rhyme every time. If I wanted a cream cake, I'd ask for it and ask for it, and if at the twelfth time of asking I hadn't got it, I'd put it to the person I was asking finally this way—
"I used to think that you could do
Most everything; but now I see
You can't, for it appears that you
Can't give a creamy cake to me."
"But I can't write poetry," said Jimmieboy.
"Oh, yes you can!" laughed the Imp. "Anybody can. I've written lots of it. I wrote a poem to my papa once which pleased him very much, though he said he was sorry I had discovered what he called his secret."
"Have you got it with you?" asked Jimmieboy, very much interested in what the Imp was saying, because he had often thought, as he reflected about the world, that of all the men in it his papa seemed to him to be the very finest, and it was his great wish to grow up to be as like him as possible; and surely if any little boy could, as the Imp had said, write some kind of poetry, he might, after all, follow in the footsteps of his father, whose every production, Jimmieboy's mamma said, was just as nice as it could be.
"Yes, I have it here, where I keep everything, in my head. Just glue your ear as tightly as you can to the 'phone and I'll recite it for you. This is it:
"I've watched you, papa, many a day,
And think I know you pretty well;
You've been my chum—at work, at play—
You've taught me how to romp and spell.
"You've taught me how to sing sweet songs;
You've taught me how to listen, too;
You've taught me rights; you've shown me wrongs;
You've made me love the good and true.
"Sometimes you've punished me, and I
Sometimes have wept most grievously
That yours should be the hand whereby
The things I wished were kept from me.
"Sometimes I've thought that you were stern;
Sometimes I could not understand
Why you should make my poor heart burn
By scoldings and by reprimand.
"Yet as it all comes back, I see
My sorrows, though indeed most sore
In those dear days they seemed to me,
Grieved you at heart by far the more.
"The frowns that wrinkled up your brow,
That grieved your little son erstwhile,
As I reflect upon them now,
Were always softened by a smile
"That shone, dear father, in your eyes;
A smile that was but ill concealed,
By which the love that in you lies
For me, your boy, was e'er revealed."
Here the Imp stopped.
"Go on," said Jimmieboy, softly.
"There isn't any more," replied the Imp. "When I got that far I couldn't write any more, because I kind of got running over. I didn't seem to fit myself exactly. Myself was too big for myself, and so I had to stop and sort of settle down again."
"Your papa must have been very much pleased," suggested Jimmieboy.
"Yes, he was," said the Imp; "although I noticed a big tear in his eye when I read it to him; but he gave me a great big hug for the poem, and I was glad I'd written it. But you must run along and get that key, for my time is very short, and if we are to see Magnetville and all the wire country we must be off."
"Perhaps if the rhyme always brings about the answer you want, it would be better for me to ask the question that way first, and not bother him with the other twelve ways," suggested Jimmieboy.
"That's very thoughtful of you," said the Imp. "I think very likely it would be better to do it that way. Just you tiptoe softly up to him and say,
"If you loved me as I love you,
And I were you and you were me,
What you asked me I'd surely do,
And let you have that silver key."
"I think that's just the way," said Jimmieboy, repeating the verse over and over again so as not to forget it. "I'll go to him at once."
And he did go. He tiptoed into the library, at one end of which his papa was sitting writing; he kissed him on his cheek, and whispered the verse softly in his ear.
"Why, certainly," said his papa, when he had finished. "Here it is," taking the key from the end of his chain. "Don't lose it, Jimmieboy."
BEFORE HIM STOOD THE IMP.
"No, I'll not lose it. I've got too much use for it to lose it," replied Jimmieboy, gleefully, and then, sliding down from his papa's lap, he ran headlong into the back hall to where the telephone stood, inserted the key in the key-hole of the little door over the receiver and turned it. The door flew open, and before him stood the Imp.
II
IN THE IMP'S ROOM
"Dear me!" ejaculated Jimmieboy, as his eye first rested upon the Imp. "That's you, eh?"
"I believe so," replied the Imp, standing on his left leg, and twirling around and around until Jimmieboy got dizzy looking at him. "I was me when I got up this morning, and I haven't heard of any change since. Do I look like what I told you I looked like?"
"Not exactly," said Jimmieboy. "You said you had lilac-colored hair, and it's more like a green than a lilac."
"You are just like everybody else naming your colors. People are very queer about things of that sort, I think. For instance," said the Imp, to illustrate his point, "you go walking in the garden with one of your friends, and you come to a rose-bush, and your friend says, 'Isn't that a pretty rose-bush?' 'Yes,' say you; 'very.' Then he says, 'And what a lovely lilac-bush that is over there.' 'Extremely lovely,' say you. 'Let's sit down under this raspberry-bush,' says he. Well, now you think lilac is a delicate lavender, rose a pink, and raspberry a red—eh?"
"Yes," said Jimmieboy. "That's the way they are."
"Well, maybe so; but that lilac-bush and rose-bush and raspberry-bush are all the same color, and that color is green, just like my hair; you must have thought I looked like a rainbow or a paint shop when I told you about myself?"
"No," said Jimmieboy. "I didn't think that, exactly. I thought, perhaps, you were like the pictures in my Mother Goose book. They have lots of colors to 'em, and they are not bad looking, either."
"Well, if they are not bad looking," said the Imp, with a pleased smile, "they must be very much like me. But don't you want to come in?"
"I'm not small enough," said Jimmieboy; "but I'll eat that apple you spoke about, and maybe it'll make me shrink, though I don't see how it can."
"Easy enough. Haven't you seen a boy doubled up after eating an apple? Of course you have; perhaps you were the boy. At any rate there is no reason why, if an apple can work that way, it can't work the other. It's a poor rule that won't work both ways, and an apple is pretty good, as a rule, and so you have it proved without trying that what I say is true. Here's the apple; eat it as quickly as you can and give me the core."
Jimmieboy took the dainty piece of fruit in his hand and ate it with much relish, for it was a very sweet apple, and he was fond of that sort of thing. Unfortunately, he liked it so well that he forgot to give the core to the Imp, and, when in a moment he felt himself shrinking up, and the Imp asked for the core, he was forced blushingly to confess that he had been very piggish about it, and had swallowed the whole thing.
"I've half a mind not to let you in at all!" cried the Imp, stamping his foot angrily upon the floor, so angrily that the bells rang out softly as if in remonstrance. "In fact, I don't see how I can let you in, because you have disobeyed me about that core."
"I'm surprised at you," returned Jimmieboy, slightly injured in feeling by the Imp's behavior. "I wouldn't make such a fuss about an old apple-core. If you feel as badly about it as all that, I'll run down into the kitchen and get you a whole apple—one as big as you are."
"That isn't the point at all," said the Imp. "I didn't want the core for myself at all. I wanted it for you."
"Well, I've got it," said Jimmieboy, who had now shrunk until he was no taller than the Imp himself, not more than two inches high.
"Of course you have, and if you will notice it is making you grow right back again to the size you were before. That's where the trouble comes in with those trick apples. The outside makes you shrink, and the core makes you grow. When I said I wanted the core I meant that I wanted it to keep until we had had our trip together, so that when we got back you could eat it, and return to your papa and mamma just as you were in the beginning. Just run to the parlor mirror now and watch yourself."
Jimmieboy hastened into the parlor, and climbing upon the mantel-piece gazed into the mirror, and, much to his surprise, noticed that he was growing fast. He was four inches high when he got there, and then as the minutes passed he lengthened inch by inch, until finally he found himself just as he had been before he ate the apple.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?" he asked, when he returned to the telephone.
"I don't know," said the Imp. "It's really too bad, for that's the last apple of that sort I had. The trick-apple trees only bear one apple a year, and I have been saving that one for you ever since last summer, and here, just because you were greedy, it has all gone for nothing."
"I'm very sorry, and very much ashamed," said Jimmieboy, ruefully. "It was really so awfully good, I didn't think."
"Well, it's very thoughtless of you not to think," said the Imp. "I should think you'd feel very small."
"I do!" sobbed Jimmieboy.
"Do you, really?" cried the Imp, gleefully. "Real weeny, teeny small."
"Yes," said Jimmieboy, a tear trickling down his cheek.
"Then it's all right," sang the Imp, dancing a lovely jig to show how glad he felt. "Because we are always the way we feel. If you feel sick, you are sick. If you feel good, you are good, and if you feel sorry, you are sorry, and so, don't you see, if you feel small you are small. The only point is, now, do you feel small enough to get into this room?"
"I think I do," returned Jimmieboy, brightening up considerably, because his one great desire now was not to be a big grown-up man, like his papa, who could sharpen lead-pencils, and go out of doors in snow-storms, but to visit the Imp in his own quarters. "Yes," he repeated, "I think I do feel small enough to get in there."
"You've got to know," returned the Imp. "The trouble with you, I believe, is that you think in the wrong places. This isn't a matter of thinking; it's a matter of knowing."
"Well, then, I know I'm small enough," said Jimmieboy. "The only thing is, how am I to get up there?"
"I'll fix that," replied the Imp, with a happy smile. "I'll let down the wires, and you can come up on them."
Here he began to unwind two thin green silk-covered wires that Jimmieboy had not before noticed, and which were coiled about two small spools fastened on the back of the door.
"I can't climb," said Jimmieboy, watching the operation with interest.
"Nobody asked you to," returned the Imp. "When these have reached the floor I want you to fasten them to the newel-post of the stairs."
"All right," said Jimmieboy, grasping the wires, and fastening them as he was told. "What now?"
"Now I'll send down the elevator," said the Imp, as he loosened a huge magnet from the wall, and fastening it securely upon the two wires, sent it sliding down to where Jimmieboy stood. "There," he added, as it reached the end of the wire. "Step on that; I'll turn on the electricity, and up you'll come."
"I won't fall, will I?" asked Jimmieboy, timidly.
"That depends on the way you feel," the Imp answered. "If you feel safe, you are safe. Do you feel safe?"
"Not very," said Jimmieboy, as he stepped aboard the magnetic elevator.
"Then we'll have to wait until you do," returned the Imp, impatiently. "It seems to me that a boy who has spent weeks and weeks and weeks jumping off plush sofas onto waxed hard-wood floors ought to be less timid than you are."
"That's true," said Jimmieboy. "I guess I feel safe."
"All aboard, then," said the Imp, pressing a small button at the back of his room.
There was a rattle and a buzz, and then the magnet began to move upward, slowly at first, and then with all the rapidity of the lightning, so that before Jimmieboy had an opportunity to change his mind about his safety he was in the Imp's room, and, much to his delight, discovered that he was small enough to walk about therein without having to stoop, and in every way comfortable.
"AT LAST," EJACULATED THE IMP.
"At last!" ejaculated the Imp, grasping his hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze. "At last you are here. And now we'll close the door, and I'll show you my treasures."
With this the door was closed, and for a moment all was dark as pitch; but only for a moment, for hardly had Jimmieboy turned around when a flood of soft light burst forth from every corner of the room, and the little visitor saw upon every side of him the most wonderful books, toys, and musical instruments he had ever seen, each and all worked by electricity, and apparently subject to the will of the Imp, who was the genius of the place.
III
ELECTRIC COOKING
"Hurrah!" cried Jimmieboy, in ecstasy. "This is great, isn't it?"
"Pretty great," assented the Imp, proudly. "That is, unless you mean large. If you mean it that way it isn't great at all; but if you mean great like me, who, though very, very small, am simply tremendous as a success, I agree with you. I like it here very much. The room is extremely comfortable, and I do everything by electricity—cooking, reading, writing—everything."
"I don't see how," said Jimmieboy.
"Oh, it's simply a matter of buttons and batteries. The battery makes the electricity, I press the buttons, and there you are. You know what a battery is, don't you?"
"Not exactly," said Jimmieboy. "You might explain it to me."
"Yes, I might if I hadn't a better way," replied the Imp. "I won't explain it to you, because I can have it explained to you in another way entirely, though I won't promise that either of us will understand the explanation. Let's see," he added, rising from his chair and inspecting a huge button-board that hung from the wall at the left of the room. "Where's the Dictionary button? Ah, here—"
"The what?" queried the visitor, his face alive with wonderment.
"The Dictionary button. I press the Dictionary button, and the Dictionary tells me whatever I want to know. Just listen to this."
The Imp pressed a button as he spoke, and Jimmieboy listened. In an instant there was a loud buzzing sound, and then an invisible something began to speak, or rather to sing:
"She's my Annie,
I'm her Joe.
Little Annie Rooney—"
"Dear me!" cried the Imp, his face flushing to a deep crimson. "Dear me, I got the wrong button. That's my Music-room button. It's right next the Dictionary button, and my finger must have slipped. I'll just turn 'Annie Rooney' off and try again. Now listen."
Again the Imp touched a button, and Jimmieboy once more heard the buzzing sound, followed by a squeaking voice, which said:
"Battery is a noun—plural, batteries. In baseball the pitcher and catcher is the battery; in electricity a battery is a number of Leyden jars, usually arranged with their inner coatings connected, and their outer coatings also connected, so that they may be all charged and discharged at the same time."
"Understand that, Jimmieboy?" queried the Imp, with a smile, turning the Dictionary button off.
"No, I don't," said Jimmieboy. "But I suppose it is all right."
"Perhaps you'd like an explanation of the explanation?" suggested the Imp.
"If it's one I can understand, I would," returned Jimmieboy. "But I don't see the use of explanations that don't explain."
"They aren't much good," observed the Imp, touching another button. "This will make it clear, I think."
"The Dictionary doesn't say it," said another squeaking voice, in response to the touch of the Imp on the third button; "but a battery is a thing that looks like a row of jars full of preserves, but isn't, and when properly cared for and not allowed to freeze up, it makes electricity, which is a sort of red-hot invisible fluid that pricks your hands when you touch it, and makes them feel as if they were asleep if you keep hold of it for any length of time, and which carries messages over wires, makes horse-cars go without horses, lights a room better than gas, and is so like lightning that no man who has tried both can tell the difference between them."
Here the squeaking voice turned into a buzz again, and then stopped altogether.
"Now do you understand?" asked the Imp, anxiously.
"I think I do," replied Jimmieboy. "A battery is nothing but a lot of big glass jars in which 'lectricity is made, just as pie is made in a tin plate and custard is made in cups."
"Exactly," said the Imp. "But, of course, electricity is a great deal more useful than pie or custard. The best custard in the world wouldn't move a horse-car, and I don't believe anybody ever saw a pie that could light up a room the way this is. It's a pretty wonderful thing, electricity is, but not particularly good eating, and sometimes I don't think it's as good for cooking as the good old-fashioned fire. I've had pie that was too hot, and I've had pie that was too electric, and between the two I think the too-hot pie was the pleasanter, though really nothing can make pie positively unpleasant."
"So I have heard," said Jimmieboy, with an approving nod. "I haven't had any sperience with pie, you know. That and red pepper are two things I am not allowed to eat at dinner."
"You wouldn't like to taste some of my electric custard, would you?" asked the Imp, his sympathies aroused by Jimmieboy's statement that as yet he and pie were strangers.
"Indeed I would!" cried Jimmieboy, with a gleeful smile. "I'd like it more than anything else!"
"Very well," said the Imp, turning to the button-board, and scratching his head as if perplexed for a moment. "Let's see," he added. "What is custard made of?"
"Custard?" said Jimmieboy, who thought there never could be any question on that point. "It's made of custard. I know, because I eat it all up when I get it, and there's nothing but custard in it from beginning to end."
The Imp smiled. He knew better than that. "You are right partially," he said. "But there aren't custard-mines or custard-trees or custard-wells in the world, so it has to be made of something. I guess I'll ask my cookery-book."
Here he touched a pink button in the left-hand upper corner of the board.
"Milk—sugar—and—egg," came the squeaking voice. "Three-quarters of a pint of milk, two table-spoonfuls of sugar, and one whole egg."
"Don't you flavor it with anything?" asked the Imp, pressing the button a second time.
"If you want to," squeaked the voice. "Vanilla, strawberry, huckleberry, sarsaparilla, or anything else, just as you want it."
Jimmieboy's mouth watered. A strawberry custard! "Dear me!" he thought. "Wouldn't that be just the dish of dishes to live on all one's days!"
"Two teaspoonfuls of whatever flavor you want will be enough for one cup of custard," said the squeaky voice, lapsing back immediately into the curious buzz.
"Thanks," said the Imp, returning to the table and putting down the receipt on a piece of paper.
"You're welcome," said the buzz.
"Now, Jimmieboy, we'll have two cup custards in two minutes," said the Imp. "What flavor will you have?"
"Strawberry cream, please," said Jimmieboy, as if he were ordering soda-water.
"All right. I guess I'll take sarsaparilla," said the Imp, walking to the board again. "Now see me get the eggs."
He pressed a blue button this time. The squeaky voice began to cackle, and in a second two beautiful white eggs appeared on the table. In the same manner the milk, flavoring, and sugar were obtained; only when the Imp signalled for the milk the invisible voice mooed so like a cow that Jimmieboy looked anxiously about him, half expecting to see a soft-eyed Jersey enter the room.
"Now," said the Imp, opening the eggs into a bowl, and pouring the milk and flavoring and sugar in with them, and mixing them all up together, "we'll pour this into that funnel over there, turn on the electricity, and get our custard in a jiffy. Just watch that small hole at the end of the funnel, and you'll see the custard come out."
"Are the cups inside? Or do we have to catch the custards in 'em as they come out?" asked Jimmieboy.
"Oh, my!" cried the Imp. "I'm glad you spoke of that. I had forgotten the cups. We've got to put them in with the other things."
The Imp rushed to the button-board, and soon had two handsome little cups in response to his summons; and then casting them into the funnel he turned on the electric current, while Jimmieboy watched carefully for the resulting custards. In two minutes by the clock they appeared below, both at the same time, one a creamy strawberry in hue, and the other brown.
THE ELECTRIC CUSTARD.
"It's wonderful!" said Jimmieboy, in breathless astonishment. "I wish I had a stove like that in my room."
"It wouldn't be good for you. You'd be using it all day and eating what you got. But how is the custard?"
"Lovely," said Jimmieboy, smacking his lips as he ate the soft creamy sweet. "I could eat a thousand of them."
"I rather doubt it," said the Imp. "But you needn't try to prove it. I don't want to wear out the stove on custard when it has my dinner still to prepare. What do you say to listening to my library a little while? I've got a splendid library in the next room. It has everything in it that has ever been written, and a great many things that haven't. That's a great thing about this electric-button business. Nothing is impossible for it to do, and if you want to hear a story some man is going to tell next year or next century you can get it just as well as something that was written last year or last century. Come along."
IV
THE LIBRARY
The Imp opened a small door upon the right of the room, and through it Jimmieboy saw another apartment, the walls of which were lined with books, and as he entered he saw that to each book was attached a small wire, and that at the end of the library was a square piece of snow-white canvas stretched across a small wooden frame.
"Magic lantern?" he queried, as his eye rested upon the canvas.
"Kind of that way," said the Imp, "though not exactly. You see, these books in this room are worked by electricity, like everything else here. You never have to take the books off the shelf. All you have to do is to fasten the wire connected with the book you want to read with the battery, turn on the current, and the book reads itself to you aloud. Then if there are pictures in it, as you come to them they are thrown by means of an electric light upon that canvas."
"Well, if this isn't the most—" began Jimmieboy, but he was soon stopped, for some book or other off in the corner had begun to read itself aloud.
"And it happened," said the book, "that upon that very night the Princess Tollywillikens passed through the wood alone, and on approaching the enchanted tree threw herself down upon the soft grass beside it and wept."
Here the book ceased speaking.
"That's the story of Pixyweevil and Princess Tollywillikens," said the Imp. "You remember it, don't you?—how the wicked fairy ran away with Pixyweevil, when he and the Princess were playing in the King's gardens, and how she had mourned for him many years, never knowing what had become of him? How the fairy had taken Pixyweevil and turned him into an oak sapling, which grew as the years passed by to be the most beautiful tree in the forest?"
"Oh, yes," said Jimmieboy. "I know. And there was a good fairy who couldn't tell Princess Tollywillikens where the tree was, or anything at all about Pixyweevil, but did remark to the brook that if the Princess should ever water the roots of that tree with her tears, the spell would be broken, and Pixyweevil restored to her—handsomer than ever, and as brave as a lion."
"That's it," said the Imp. "You've got it; and how the brook said to the Princess, 'Follow me, and we'll find Pixyweevil,' and how she followed and followed until she was tired to death, and—"
"Full of despair threw herself down at the foot of that very oak and cried like a baby," continued Jimmieboy, ecstatically, for this was one of his favorite stories.
"Yes, that's all there; and then you remember how it winds up? How the tree shuddered as her tears fell to the ground, and how she thought it was the breeze blowing through the branches that made it shudder?" said the Imp.
"And how the brook laughed at her thinking such a thing!" put in Jimmieboy.
"And how she cried some more, until finally every root of the tree was wet with her tears, and how the tree then gave a fearful shake, and—"
"Turned into Pixyweevil!" roared Jimmieboy. "Yes, I remember that; but I never really understood whether Pixyweevil ever became King? My book says, 'And so they were married, and were happy ever afterwards;' but doesn't say that he finally became a great potteringtate, and ruled over the people forever."
"I guess you mean potentate, don't you?" said the Imp, with a laugh—potteringtate seemed such a funny word.
"I guess so," said Jimmieboy. "Did he ever become one of those?"
"No, he didn't," said the Imp. "He couldn't, and live happy ever afterwards, for Kings don't get much happiness in this world, you know."
"Why, I thought they did," returned Jimmieboy, surprised to hear what the Imp had said. "My idea of a King was that he was a man who could eat between meals, and go to the circus whenever he wanted to, and always had plenty of money to spend, and a beautiful Queen."
"Oh no," returned the Imp. "It isn't so at all. Kings really have a very hard time. They have to be dressed up all the time in their best clothes, and never get a chance, as you do, for instance, to play in the snow, or in summer in the sand at the seashore. They can eat between meals if they want to, but they can't have the nice things you have. It would never do for a King to like ginger-snaps and cookies, because the people would murmur and say, 'Here—he is not of royal birth, for even we, the common people, eat ginger-snaps and cookies between meals; were he the true King he would call for green peas in wintertime, and boned turkey, and other rich stuffs that cost much money, and are hard to get; he is an impostor; come, let us overthrow him.' That's the hard part of it, you see. He has to eat things that make him ill just to keep the people thinking he is royal and not like them."
"Then what did Pixyweevil become?" asked Jimmieboy.
"A poet," said the Imp. "He became the poet of everyday things, and of course that made him a great poet. He'd write about plain and ordinary good-natured puppy-dogs, and snow-shovels, and other things like that, instead of trying to get the whole moon into a four-line poem, or to describe some mysterious thing that he didn't know much about in a ten-page poem that made it more mysterious than ever, and showed how little he really did know about it."
"I wish I could have heard some of Pixyweevil's poems," said Jimmieboy. "I liked him, and sometimes I like poems."
"Well, sit down there before the fire, and I'll see if we can't find a button to press that will enable you to hear them. They're most of 'em nonsense poems, but as they are perfect nonsense they're good nonsense.
"It is some time since I've used the library," the Imp continued, gazing about him as if in search of some particular object. "For that reason I have forgotten where everything is. However, we can hunt for what we want until we find it. Perhaps this is it," he added, grasping a wire and fastening it to the battery. "I'll turn on the current and let her go."
The crank was turned, and the two little fellows listened very intently, but there came no sound whatever.
"That's very strange," said the Imp. "I don't hear a thing."
"Neither do I," observed Jimmieboy, in a tone of disappointment. "Perhaps the library is out of order, or the battery may be."
"I'll have to take the wire and follow it along until I come to the book it is attached to," said the Imp, stopping the current and loosening the wire. "If the library is out of order it's going to be a very serious matter getting it all right again, because we have all the books in the world here, and that's a good many, you know—more'n a hundred by several millions. Ah! Here is the book this wire worked. Now let's see what was the matter."
In a moment the whole room rang with the Imp's laughter.
"NO WONDER IT WOULDN'T SAY ANYTHING," HE CRIED.
"No wonder it wouldn't say anything," he cried. "What do you suppose the book was?"
"I don't know," said Jimmieboy. "What?"
"An old copy-book with nothing in it. That's pretty good!"
At this moment the telephone bell rang, and the Imp had to go see what was wanted.
"Excuse me for a moment, Jimmieboy," he said, as he started to leave the room. "I've got to send a message for somebody. I'll turn on one of the picture-books, so that while I am gone you will have something to look at."
The Imp then fastened a wire to the battery, turned on the current, and directing Jimmieboy's attention to the sheet of white canvas at the end of the library, left the room.
V
THE CIRCUS
The pictures that now followed one another across the canvas were better than any circus Jimmieboy ever went to, for the reason that they showed a water circus in which were the finest imaginable sea-monsters doing all sorts of marvellous things; and then, too, the book the Imp had turned on evidently had some reading matter in it, for as the pictures passed before the little fellow's eyes he could hear verses describing what was going on, repeating themselves from a shelf directly back of him.
First of all in the circus was the grand parade. A great big gilded band-wagon drawn by gayly caparisoned Sea-Horses went first, and then Jimmieboy could judge how much better electric circus books were than those he had in his nursery, for this book was able to do what his had never done—it furnished music to go with the band—and such music as it was! It had all the pleasant features of the hand-organ; was as soft and sweet in parts as the music-box in the white-and-gold parlor, and once in a while would play deliciously out of tune like a real circus band. After the band-wagon there followed the most amusing things that Jimmieboy ever saw, the Trick Oysters, twelve in number, and all on foot. Next came the mounted Scallops, riding ten abreast on superbly groomed Turtles, holding the bridle of each of which walked Lobsters dressed as Clowns. Then came the menagerie, with great Sea-Lions swimming in tanks on wheels; marine Giraffes standing up to their necks in water forty feet deep; four-legged Whales, like the Oysters, on foot, and hundreds of other queer fish, all doing things Jimmieboy had never supposed they could do.
When the parade was over a great circus ring showed itself upon the canvas, and as strains of lovely music came from the left of the tent the book on the shelf began to recite:
"The Codfish walks around,
The Bass begins to sing;
The Whitebait 'round the Terrapin's cage
Would better get out of the ring.
The Gudgeon is the fish
That goes to all the shows,
He swims up to the Teredos
And tweaks him by the nose."
"That Gudgeon must have been a sort of Van Amberg," thought Jimmieboy. "He did brave things like that."
Then the book went on again:
"The Oyster now will please come forth
And show the people here
Just how he stands upon his head
And then doth disappear."
This interested Jimmieboy very much, and he watched the canvas intently as one of the Trick Oysters walked out into the ring, and after kissing his hand to Jimmieboy and bowing to the rest of the audience—if there were any to bow to, and Jimmieboy supposed there must be, for the Oyster certainly bowed—he stood upon his head, and then without a word vanished from sight.
"Hooray!" shouted Jimmieboy, whereupon the book resumed:
"Now watch the ring intently, for
The Sea-Giraffe now comes,
And without any effort turns
A plum-cake into crumbs."
"Huh!" cried Jimmieboy, as he watched the Sea-Giraffe turn the plum-cake into crumbs. "That isn't anything to do. I could do that myself, and make the plum-cake and the crumbs disappear too."
The book, of course, could not reply to this criticism, and so went right on.
"The Lobster and the Shark will now
Amuse the little folks
By making here, before their eyes,
Some rhymes and funny jokes."
When the book had said this there appeared on the canvas a really handsome Shark clad in a dress suit and a tall hat on his head, followed closely by a Lobster wearing a jester's coat and cap and bells, and bearing in his hand a little stick with Punch's head on the end of it.
"How do you do?" the Lobster seemed to say, as he reached out his claw and grabbed the Shark by his right fin.
"Sir," returned the Shark,
"If you would really like to know,
I'm very glad to say
That I am feeling pretty fine,
And think 'twill snow to-day."
"I'M VERY GLAD TO SEE YOU, SHARKEY," SAID THE LOBSTER.
"I'm very glad to see you, Sharkey," said the Lobster. "It is exceedingly pleasant to one who is always joking to meet a Fish like you."
"I pray excuse me, Lobster dear,
If I should ask you why?
Pray come and whisper in my ear,
What your words signify."
"Certainly, my dear Shark," replied the Lobster. "It is always exceedingly pleasant for a droll person to tell his jokes to a creature with a mouth as large as yours, because your smile is necessarily a tremendous one. I never like to tell my jokes to people with small mouths, because their smiles are limited, while yours is as broad as the boundless ocean."
"Thank you," returned the Shark. "That reminds me of a little song, and as I see you have a bass-drum in your pocket, I will sing it, if you will accompany me."
Here Jimmieboy had the wonderful experience of seeing a Lobster take a bass-drum out of his pocket. I shall not attempt to describe how the lobster did it, because I know you are anxious to hear the Shark's song—as also was Jimmieboy—which went as follows:—that is, the words did; the tune I cannot here reproduce, but any reader desirous of hearing it can do so if he will purchase a bass-drum set in G-flat, and beat it forty times to the second as hard as he knows how.
"I find it most convenient to
Possess a mouth like this,
Why, twenty babes at one fell swoop
I easily can kiss;
And sixty pounds of apple pie,
Plus ten of orange pulp,
And forty thousand macaroons
I swallow at a gulp.
"It's big enough for me without
Appearing like a dunce
To stand upon a platform and
Say forty things at once.
So large it is I have to wear
Of teeth a dozen sets,
And I can sing all in a bunch
Some twenty-nine duets.
"Once I was captured by some men,
Who put me in a lake,
Where sadly I did weep all day—
All night I kept awake:
And when the morning came at last,
So weary, sir, was I,
I yawned and swallowed up that pond,
Which left me high and dry.
"Then when my captors came to me,
I opened both my jaws,
And snapped each one of them right up
Without a moment's pause;
I swallowed every single man
In all that country round,
And as I had the lake inside,
They every one were drowned."
Here the Shark stopped, and Jimmieboy applauded.
"And what became of you?" asked the Lobster. "Did you die then?"
"Well," returned the Shark, with a puzzled expression on his face. "The song stops there, and I don't know whether I died or not. I presume I did, unless I swallowed myself and got into the lake again in that way. But, see here, Lobby, you haven't got off any jokes for the children yet."
"No, but I'm ready," returned Lobby. "What's the difference between me and Christmas?"
"Perhaps I'm very stupid,
Sometimes I'm rather slow—
But why you're unlike Christmas
I'm sure I do not know,"
replied the Shark.
"Oh no, you aren't stupid," said the Lobster. "It would be far stupider of you to guess the answer when it is my turn to make the little ones laugh. The reason I am different from Christmas is just this—now don't lose this, children—with Christmas comes Santa Claus, and with me comes Lobster claws. Now let me give you another. What is it that's brown like a cent, is bigger than a cent, is worth less than a cent, yet costs a cent?"
"Perhaps I do not know enough
To spell C-A-T, cat—
And yet I really must confess
I cannot answer that,"
returned the Shark.
"I am very glad of that," said the Lobster. "I should have felt very badly if you could, because, you know, I want these children here to observe that while there are some things you can do that I can't do, there are also some things I can do that you can't do. Now the thing that is brown like a cent, is bigger than a cent, is worth less than a cent, yet costs a cent, is a cent's worth of molasses taffy—which the Terrapin will now pass around for sale, along with my photographs, for the benefit of my family."
Then the Lobster bowed, the Shark and he locked fin and arm again, and amid the strains of music from the band marched out of the ring, and Jimmieboy looking up from the canvas for a moment saw that the Imp had returned.
VI
THE CIRCUS CONTINUES
"Hullo," said Jimmieboy. "Back again?"
"Do I look it?" asked the Imp.
"Yes, I think you do," returned Jimmieboy. "Unless you are your twin brother; are you your twin brother?"
"No," laughed the Imp, "I am not. I am myself, and I am back again just as I appear to be, and I've had a real dull time of it since I went away from you."
"Doing what?" asked Jimmieboy.
"Well, first I had to tell your mother that the butcher couldn't send a ten-pound turkey, but had two six-pounders for her if she wanted them; and then I had to tell him for her that he could send mutton instead. After that I had to blow up the grocer for your father, whose cigars hadn't come, and then tell your father what wasn't so—that the cigars hadn't been ordered—for the grocer. After that, just as I was leaving, the cook came to the 'phone and asked me to tell your Aunt Susan's cook that her cousin in New York was very ill with a broken wheel on his truck, and that if she would meet her in town at eleven o'clock they could go to the matinée together, which she said she would do, and altogether it has been a very dull twenty minutes for me. Have you enjoyed yourself?"
"Hugely," said Jimmieboy; "and I hope now that you've come back I haven't got to stop enjoying myself in the same way. I'm right in the middle of the Fish Circus."
"Oh, are you," said the Imp, with a smile. "I rather enjoy that myself. How far have you got?"
"The Shark and the Lobster had just gone off when you came back."
"Good," returned the Imp. "The best part of the performance is yet to come. Move over there in the chair and make room for me. There—that's it. Now let's see what's on next. Oh yes. Here comes the Juggling Clam; he is delightful. I like him better that way than if he was served with tomato ketchup."
The Book interrupted the Imp at this point, and observed:
"Now glue your eyes upon the ring,
And see the Juggling Clam
Transform a piece of purple string
Into a pillow-sham.
"Nor think that when he has done so
His tricks are seen and done,
For next he'll turn a jet-black crow
Into a penny bun.
"Next from his handsome heaven hat
He'll take a piece of pie,
A donkey, and a Maltese cat,
A green bluebottle fly;
"A talking-doll, a pair of skates,
A fine apartment-house,
A pound of sweet imported dates,
A brace of roasted grouse;
"And should you not be satisfied
When he has done all that,
He'll take whatever you decide
Out of that beaver hat.
"And after that he'll lightly spring
Into the atmosphere,
And show you how a Clam can sing
If he but persevere.
"When he has all this to you,
If you applaud him well
He'll be so glad he'll show you through
His handsome pinky shell."
Jimmieboy didn't believe the Clam could do all this, and he said so to the Imp, but the Imp told him to "wait and see," and when the boy did wait he certainly did see, for the Clam did everything that was promised, and when Jimmieboy, just to test the resources of the wonderful hat, asked the Clam to bring out three dozen jam tarts, the Clam brought out the three dozen jam tarts—only they were picture jam tarts, and Jimmieboy could only decide that it was a wonderful performance, though he would have liked mightily to taste the tarts, and see if they were as good as they looked.
"What comes next?" queried Jimmieboy, as the Clam bowed himself out of the ring.
"Listen, and the Book will tell," returned the Imp.
The Book resumed:
"We now shall have the privilege
Of witnessing the Whale
Come forth, and set our teeth on edge
By standing on his tail.
"When this is done, he'll open wide
That wondrous mouth of his,
And let us see how the inside
Of such great creatures is;
"And those who wish to take a trip—
Like Jonah took one time—
Can through his mammoth larynx slip
For one small silver dime.
"For dollars ten, he'll take you to
The coast of Labrador,
The Arctic Ocean he'll go through
For dollars twenty-four;
"And should you wish to see the Pole,
He'll take you safely there,
If you will pay the usual toll—
Ten thousand is the fare."
"I'd like to go to the North Pole," said Jimmieboy.
"Got ten thousand dollars in your pocket?" queried the Imp, with a snicker.
"No; but I've got a dollar in my iron bank," said Jimmieboy; "perhaps he'd take me for that."
YOUR EARS WOULD BE FROZEN SOLID.
"Very likely he would," said the Imp. "These circus fellows will do almost anything for money; but when he got you there he would tell you you could stay there until you paid the other $9999; and think how awful that would be. Why, your ears would be frozen solid inside of four weeks."
"Is it as cold as that at the Pole?" said Jimmieboy.
"Colder!" ejaculated the Imp. "Why, when I was there once I felt chilly in spite of my twenty-eight seal-skin sacques and sixty-seven mufflers, so I decided to build a fire. I got the fagots all ready, lit the match, and what do you suppose happened?"
"What?" queried Jimmieboy, in a whisper, for he was a little awed by the Imp's manner. "Wouldn't the match light?"
"Worse than that," replied the Imp. "It lit, but before I could touch it to the fagots the flame froze!"
Jimmieboy eyed the Imp closely. This seemed to him so like a fairy story, in which the first half is always untrue and the last half imaginary, that he did not exactly know whether the Imp meant him to believe all he said or not. It did him no particular good, though, to scrutinize the Imp's countenance, for that worthy gave not the slightest sign that there was any room for doubt as to the truth of this story; indeed, he continued:
"Why, the last time I went to the North Pole I took forty-seven thermometers to register the coolth of it, and the mercury not only went down to the very bottom of every one of them, but went down so quickly that it burst through the glass bulb that marked 4006 below zero, and fell eight miles more before it even began to slow up. It was so cold that some milk I carried in a bottle was frozen so hard that it didn't thaw out for sixteen months after I got back, although I kept it in boiling water all the time, and one of the Esquimaux who came up there in midsummer to shoot polar bears had to send for a plumber after his return home to thaw out his neck, which had frozen stiff."
"Maybe that is why the Whale charges so much to take people there," suggested Jimmieboy.
"It is, exactly. There is no risk about it for him, but he has to eat so much hot coal and other things to warm him up, that really it costs him nearly as much as he gets to make the trip. I don't believe that he clears more than half a dollar on the whole thing, even when he is crowded," said the Imp.
"Crowded?" echoed Jimmieboy. "What do you mean by that?"
"Crowded? Why, crowded is an English word meaning jamful and two more," said the Imp.
"But crowded with what?" queried Jimmieboy.
"Why, passengers, of course. What did you suppose? Ink bottles?"
"Then he takes more than one passenger at a time," said Jimmieboy.
"Certainly he does. He'll hold twenty-five boys of your size in comfort, thirty-five in discomfort, forty-five in an emergency, and fifty at a pinch," said the Imp. "But see here, we are losing a lot of circus. There goes the Educated Scallop out of the ring now. I'm sorry you missed him, for he is a tender."
"A what?"
"A tender. That is, he is ten times as marvellous as a wonder. Why that Scallop is the finest comic actor you ever saw. His imitation of a party of sharks off manning is simply the most laughable thing I ever saw," said the Imp, enthusiastically.
"I wish I could understand half of what you say," said Jimmieboy, looking wistfully at the Imp. "Because if I did, you know, I might guess the rest."
"What is it you don't understand now?" asked the Imp.
"What is a party of sharks off manning?" queried Jimmieboy.
"Did you ever see a man fishing?" questioned the Imp.
"Yes."
"Well, if a man can fish, why shouldn't a fish man? Sharks can catch men just as easily as men can catch sharks, and the Scallop shows how sharks behave when they catch men—that's all."
"I wish I'd seen it; can't you turn back to that page in the book, and have it done all over again?" asked the boy.
"No, I can't," said the Imp. "It's against the rules of the Library. It hurts a book to be turned back, just as much as it hurts your little finger to be turned back, and in nine cases out of ten turning back pages makes them dogeared; and dogs, or anything that even suggests dogs, are not allowed here. Why, if the other Imps who own this Library with me knew that I had even mentioned dogs they would suspend me for a week. But, my dear boy, we really must stop talking. This time we missed the Crab with the iron claw—why, that Crab can crack hickory nuts with that claw when he's half asleep; and when he's wide awake he can hold a cherry stone a hundred miles a minute, and that's holding mighty fast, I can tell you. Let's hear what the Book has to say now."
"Bang!" said the Book.
"Dear me!" cried the Imp. "Did you hear that!"
"Yes," said Jimmieboy. "What does it mean?"
"It means the circus is all over," said the Imp. "That was the shutting of the Book we heard. It's too bad; but there are other things quite as well worth seeing here. I'll tell you what we'll do—I'll find the Pixyweevil Poetry Book, and turn that on, and while you are listening, I'll see who that is ringing, for I am quite sure the bell rang a minute ago."
VII
THE POETRY BOOK, AND THE END
The Imp then arranged the wires so that the Poetry Book could recite itself to Jimmieboy, after which he went back to his office to see who it was that had been ringing the bell.
"My first poem," said a soft silvery voice from the top shelf, towards which Jimmieboy immediately directed his attention—"my first poem is a perfect gem. I have never seen anything anywhere that could by any possibility be finer than it is, unless it be in my new book, which contains millions of better ones. It is called, 'To a Street Lamp,' and goes this way:
"You seem quite plain, old Lamp, to men,
Yet 'twould be hard to say
What we should do without you when
Night follows on the day;
"And while your lumination seems
Much less than that of sun,
I truly think but for your beams
We would be much undone.
"And who knows, Lamp, but to some wight,
Too small for me to see,
You are just such a wondrous sight
As old Sol is to me!
"Isn't that just terribly lovely?" said the soft silvery voice when the poem was completed.
"Yes; but I don't think it's very funny," said Jimmieboy. "I like to laugh, you know, and I couldn't laugh at that."
"Oh!" said the silvery voice, with a slight tinge of disappointment in it. "You want fun do you? Well, how do you like this? I think it is the funniest thing ever written, except others by the same author:
"There was an old man in New York
Who thought he'd been changed to a stork;
He stood on one limb
'Til his eyesight grew dim,
And used his left foot for a fork."
"That's the kind," said Jimmieboy, enthusiastically. "I could listen to a million of that sort of poems."
"I'd be very glad to tell you a million of them," returned the voice, "but I don't believe there's electricity enough for me to do it under twenty-five minutes, and as we only have five left, I'm going to recite my lines on 'A Sulphur Match.'
"The flame you make, O Sulphur Match!
When your big head I chance to scratch,
"Appears so small most people deem
You lilliputian, as you seem.
"And yet the force that in you lies
Can light with brilliance all the skies.
"There's strength enough in you to send
Great cities burning to their end;
"So that we have a hint in you
Of what the smallest thing can do.
"Don't you like that?" queried the voice, anxiously. "I do hope you do, because I am especially proud of that. The word lilliputian is a tremendous word for a poet of my size, and to think that I was able, alone and unassisted, to lift it bodily out of the vocabulary into the poem makes me feel very, very proud of myself, and agree with my mother that I am the greatest poet that ever lived."
"Well, if you want me to, I'll like it," said Jimmieboy, who was in an accommodating mood. "I'll take your word for it that it is a tremendous poem, but if you think of repeating it over again to me, don't do it. Let me have another comic poem."
"All right," said Pixyweevil—for it was he that spoke through the book. "You are very kind to like my poem just to please me. Tell me anything in the world you want a poem about, and I'll let you have the poem."
"Really?" cried Jimmieboy, delighted to meet with so talented a person as Pixyweevil. "Well—let me see—I'd like a poem about my garden rake."
"Certainly. Here it is:
"I had a little garden rake
With seven handsome teeth,
It followed me o'er fern and brake,
O'er meadow-land and heath.
"And though at it I'd often scowl,
And treat it far from right,
My garden rake would never growl,
Nor use its teeth to bite."
"Elegant!" ejaculated Jimmieboy. "Say it again."
"Oh no! we haven't time for that. Besides, I've forgotten it. What else shall I recite about?" queried Pixyweevil.
"I don't know; I can't make up my mind," said Jimmieboy.
"Oh dear me! that's awful easy," returned Pixyweevil. "I can do that with my eyes shut. Here she goes:
"Shall I become a lawyer great,
A captain of a yacht,
A man who deals in real estate,
A doctor, or a what?
Ah me! Oh ho!
I do not know.
I can't make up my mind.
"I have a penny. Shall I buy
An apple or a tart?
A bit of toffee or a pie,
A cat-boat or a cart?
Ah me! Oh ho!
I do not know.
I can't make up my mind."
"Splendid!" cried Jimmieboy.
"That's harder—much harder," said Pixyweevil, "but I'll try. How is this:
"I bought one day, in Winnipeg,
A truly wondrous heavy egg;
And when my homeward course was run
I showed it to my little son.
'Dear me!' said he,
When he did see,
'I think that hen did
Splen-did-ly!'
"I saw a bird—'twas reddish-brown—
One day while in a country town,
Which sang, 'Oh, Johnny, Get Your Gun;'
And when I told my little son,
In tones of glee
Said he, 'Dear me!
I think that wren did
Splen-did-ly!"
"That's the best I can do with splendid," said Pixyweevil.
"Well, it's all you can do now, anyhow," came a voice from the doorway, which Jimmieboy immediately recognized as the Imp's; "for Jimmieboy's mamma has just telephoned that she wants him to come home right away."
"It was very nice, Mr. Pixyweevil," said Jimmieboy, as he rose to depart. "And I am very much obliged."
"Thank you," returned Pixyweevil. "You are very polite, and exceedingly truthful. I believe myself that, as that 'Splendid' poem might say, if it had time,
"I've truly ended
Splen-did-ly."
And then Jimmieboy and the Imp passed out of the library back through the music and cookery room. The Imp unlocked the door, and, fixing the wires, sent Jimmieboy sliding gleefully down to the back hall, whence he had originally entered the little telephone closet.
"HULLO!" SAID HIS PAPA. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?"
"Hullo!" said his papa. "Where have you been?"
"Having a good time," said Jimmieboy.
"And what have you done with the key of my cigar-box?"
"Oh, I forgot," said Jimmieboy. "I left it in the telephone door."
"What a queer place to leave it," said his papa. "Let me have it, please, for I want to smoke."
And Jimmieboy went to get it, and, sure enough, there it was in the little box, and it unlocked it, too; but when his father came to open the door and look inside, the Imp had disappeared.