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There was once a Boy who worked for a Magician. Every day he polished the Magician’s magic wands and the gold stars and moons on his great blue robe. He weeded the garden where the magic herbs grew, and crushed their seeds into powder for the Magician’s spells. He worked very hard indeed. But he wasn’t happy.
    More than anything in the world, the Boy wanted to learn magic—but the Magician would not teach him.
    The Boy fed the six white rabbits that lived in a hutch in the garden, but he was always startled when he saw the Magician pull one of them out of somebody’s hat. He washed the dishes in the kitchen, and watched enviously when the Magician picked up an empty jug and poured milk out of it. How did he do these things?
    â€œMaster,” he begged, “teach me! Teach me magic!”
    But the Magician always said, “Not yet,Boy. Not till the time is right. Not yet.”
    When the Magician went out to perform, the Boy went with him, to help him on stage, and to catch any rabbits he might pull out of hats. The Boy loved those days, because then he had one really special job too.
    When the Magician performed, he always took with him a little puppet theatre in which he showed the play“Saint George and the Dragon”—and the Boy was allowed to operate the puppets. The Boy stood on a box behind the tiny stage, hidden by a curtain, and he pulled the puppets’ strings while the Magician told the story of the play.
    It was an odd little play. One of the people in it was Father Christmas, but all he had to do was introduce the other characters to the audience. These were the wicked Dragon, who loved fighting; the Turkish Knight, who fought the Dragon but could never beat him; and the Doctor, who was there in case anyone was wounded. And of course there was the hero, Saint George.
    The Boy was especially proud of the way he made Saint George kill the Dragon, at the end. The wounded Dragon staggered round in a circle, puffed out three clouds of white smoke, jumped up in the air and fell downdead. (The white smoke was really chalk dust, puffed by the Boy from a little pipe.) The watching children always cheered at this, so the Boy was pleased. It wasn’t magic, but it was the next best thing.
    One Christmas, the Magician and the Boy went to perform at a family party given by a Mr. and Mrs. Pennywinkle, in a grand stone house as big as a castle.
    â€œMr. Pennywinkle is a very important person!” said the Magician, frowning at the Boy. “Everything must be
perfect!”
    The Magician was a very tall man, with a beaky nose, black eyebrows like doormats, and a bristly mustache. He was alarming when he frowned.

    The Boy said, “Yes, Master! Of course!” He gave the magic wands an extra polish, he shampooed the rabbits, and he repainted the trees on the back wall of the puppet theatre stage.
    And off they went to the party.

At the party, Mr. and Mrs. Pennywinkle’s house was full of light and music, and the Magician’s audience was full of children. They gasped and clapped at the Magician’s tricks, especially when he took six eggs one by one out of Mr. Pennywinkle’s bow tie, broke them into Mrs. Pennywinkle’spurse, pulled out a Christmas cake and showed the purse to be perfectly empty, clean and dry.
    I wish I could do that!
thought the Boy, as he swept up the eggshells.
    But it was time for the play.
    â€œNow for the terrifying story of ‘Saint George and the Dragon’!” boomed the Magician, and he pulled back the curtain covering the stage of the little theatre. Behind the stage the Boy stood, hidden, ready to pull the puppets’ strings.
    â€œTo begin, let us meet our characters!” cried the Magician. “First—Father Christmas!”
    The children all cheered, as the unseen Boy made the fat little Father Christmas puppet turn head over heels onstage, and bow to them.
    â€œThe Dragon!”
    Quickly the Boy hung