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.

Mr. Wicker went forward in the darkness and leaning over, took up the
bottle with care from where it had lain for so many years, dusted and
polished only by the loving eyes of a boy who had often pressed his
nose against the Georgian panes.

"You are to have this," Mr. Wicker said, putting the bottle with its
delicate contents in both Chris's hands. "Both Ned and I would like to
know that it is yours."

He turned to put his hand on the doorknob. Chris found his voice.