Part 31 (2/2)
”Of course I do,” it said. ”Leave go of me or I'll bite!--I really will--I mean it. Oh, well, if you choose to risk it.”
Anthea risked it and held on.
”Look here,” she said, ”don't bite me--listen to reason. If you'll only do what we want to-day, we'll never ask you for another wish as long as we live.”
The Psammead was much moved.
”I'd do anything,” it said in a tearful voice. ”I'd almost burst myself to give you one wish after another, as long as I held out, if you'd only never, never ask me to do it after to-day. If you knew how I hate to blow myself out with other people's wishes, and how frightened I am always that I shall strain a muscle or something. And then to wake up every morning and know you've _got_ to do it. You don't know what it is--you don't know what it is, you don't!” Its voice cracked with emotion, and the last ”don't” was a squeak.
Anthea set it down gently on the sand.
”It's all over now,” she said soothingly. ”We promise faithfully never to ask for another wish after to-day.”
”Well, go ahead,” said the Psammead; ”let's get it over.”
”How many can you do?”
”I don't know--as long as I can hold out.”
”Well, first, I wish Lady Chittenden may find she's never lost her jewels.”
The Psammead blew itself out, collapsed, and said, ”Done.”
”I wish,” said Anthea more slowly, ”mother mayn't get to the police.”
”Done,” said the creature after the proper interval.
”I wish,” said Jane suddenly, ”mother could forget all about the diamonds.”
”Done,” said the Psammead; but its voice was weaker.
”Would you like to rest a little?” asked Anthea considerately.
”Yes, please,” said the Psammead; ”and, before we go any further, will you wish something for me?”
”Can't you do wishes for yourself?”
”Of course not,” it said; ”we were always expected to give each other our wishes--not that we had any to speak of in the good old Megatherium days. Just wish, will you, that you may never be able, any of you, to tell anyone a word about _Me_.”
”Why?” asked Jane.
”Why, don't you see, if you told grown-ups I should have no peace of my life. They'd get hold of me, and they wouldn't wish silly things like you do, but real earnest things; and the scientific people would hit on some way of making things last after sunset, as likely as not; and they'd ask for a graduated income-tax, and old-age pensions, and manhood suffrage, and free secondary education, and dull things like that; and get them, and keep them, and the whole world would be turned topsy-turvy. Do wish it! Quick!”
Anthea repeated the Psammead's wish, and it blew itself out to a larger size than they had yet seen it attain.
”And now,” it said as it collapsed, ”can I do anything more for you?”
”Just one thing; and I think that clears everything up, doesn't it, Jane? I wish Martha to forget about the diamond ring, and mother to forget about the keeper cleaning the windows.”
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