little Negro boy, so
gaily dressed in full red trousers, gilded jacket and white turban.
The figure's shoes, carved in some Eastern style, had curved
up-pointing toes. Then all at once the idea came to Chris. If he was
to be a magician, could he make this boy come to life?

The prospect excited him wildly, for he had no companion with whom to
laugh and share jokes. Grown people, however gay and kind, were never
quite the same. The more he thought of it, the more Chris knew it had
to be attempted. He squatted on his haunches, examining the carved
wooden figure attentively, and felt convinced that, once alive, the
boy would be an ideal and happy companion.

But how did one change inanimate to animate? Chris got up and stole
back to Mr. Wicker's door. He heard the magician going up the spiral
staircase to his room above, and after changing himself to a mouse to
slip under the door and see that the room was really empty, Chris
resumed his proper shape and opened the doors of the cupboard at the
far end of the room.

On its top shelf was Book Three, a book a foot thick and bound in
heavy brass studded with semi-precious stones in the form of signs and
symbols. With difficulty, standing on tiptoe, Chris lifted it down,
and placing it on the floor, turned over page after page.

The afternoon, rainy before, increased in storm. Dusk came two hours
before its time; thunder snarled in the sky.

At last Chris found it. There were the words, and there the charm.
Certain elements were to be mixed and poured at the proper time. He
hurried, memorizing as he closed the book, and hoisted it once more to
its high shelf. Looking about, he found the ingredients that had been
listed, and in an empty vial poured first two drops of this, and then
seventeen of that, and ran to heat it at the fire.

Mr. Wicker began moving about upstairs; the floorboards creaked, and
still Chris could not leave until the potion fumed and glowed.

After what seemed an endless time, amid a growing grind of thunder and
in the almost darkened room, the phial in Chris's hand gave off an
arching rosy glow. Chris, his cheeks hot from excitement and the fire,
tiptoed out just as Mr. Wicker's step creaked on the topmost tread of
the spiral stair. With infinite caution Chris closed the door silently
behind him, and running lightly forward, reached the figure of the
Negro boy.

The words came out, interrupted by peals and cracks of thunder. The
shop was black ex