“You stop that, you mean old thing!” Bob blustered angrily.

The goblin laughed the harder.

“Stop it, I say!” the boy shouted, loud enough to waken all the sleepers about the house, he thought.

The goblin continued to laugh and rub his fists and kick his heels.

“Oh, you think you’re smart!” the lad pouted, tears in his eyes, his lips quivering. “Old Fits! Old Spasms! Old Convulsions! Yeah! Yeah!”

“Here—here!” cried the goblin, springing to his feet and frowning darkly. “You mustn’t call me such names, boy.”

“I will!” sturdily.

“If you do, I’ll go away and leave you, just as you are.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t.”

“What’re you mad about?”

“You played a mean trick on me, and then laughed at me—that’s what.”

“I didn’t play any trick on you.”

“You did, too. You coaxed me to take that pill.”

“Tablet, you mean.”

“Well, tablet. What’s the difference?”

“I persuaded you to take it.”

“It’s all the same.”

“And I forgot you didn’t have your clothes on. Now you’ll have to put ’em on and take another tablet to shrink them.”

“I won’t take it.”

“Why won’t you?”

“’Cause I won’t—that’s why. Think I want to live on pills? I don’t like ’em.”

“Are you afraid to take it?”

“No, I—I’m not. But it wouldn’t shrink my clothes, if I did take it.”

“Yes, it will. Look at your night-gown.”

Bob picked up his discarded night-robe and closely examined it. It was not larger than a doll’s dress. The lad grinned sheepishly, and began to hustle into his garments. They were a world too large for him, and hung upon his shrunken limbs in a baggy and outlandish fashion. His shoes were ten sizes too big; his cap rested upon his shoulders.

“Huh!” he muttered in disgust; “I look like a scarecrow.”

“Here!” the goblin said, soberly. “Take another tablet.”

Bob shook his head.

“What’s the matter, now?” asked Fitz.

“I’m afraid to take it,” the boy replied.

“What’re you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid it will shrink me all away to nothing.”

“No, it won’t.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. These are goblin tablets; gob-tabs we Call ’em for short. They just shrink a person to goblin size; you can’t shrink any more. Take it now; it’ll just shrink your clothes.”

“W-e-ll, I—I don’t know; I can’t remain in this fix, though.” Then in sudden desperation:—“Give it to me; I’ll take it!”

The lad swallowed the tablet. Barely had he done so, when his clothes shrank to fit him—skin tight.

“Say!” he giggled gleefully, closely examining himself. “Those tablets are great.”

“Sure!” winked the goblin. “Now are you ready to go?”

“Why—why,” Bob faltered, “I’d like to bid my folks good-bye—especially mamma.”

“You’re in nice shape to bid your folks good-bye, now, aren’t you?” sneered the goblin.

“That’s so,” the boy muttered, sadly shaking his head. “But I do hate to leave ’em without saying anything about it—especially mamma.”

“Huh!” the goblin grunted, contemptuously. “You tell your mother of your intention and she won’t let you go.”

“Yes, that’s so.”

“Well, let’s be off; we’re losing too much time.”

“I—I can come back sometime, can’t I?”

“Pshaw;” snapped the goblin. “I guess you’re satisfied with things here and don’t want to go at all.”

“Yes, I do want to go.”

“Well, come on then—and no more fooling. I’ll be a good comrade to you; we’ll have lots of fun. I’ll call you Bob and you’ll call me Fitz. Oh, we’ll have a bully time!”

“All right!” the lad cried courageously. “I’m ready.”

“That’s the stuff!” chuckled the goblin.

They leaped upon the window-sill. Fitz Mee caught the anchor rope and shinned up it, and Bob nimbly followed.

As the lad clambered into the basket he remarked:

“Your balloon’s bigger than I thought it was, Fitz.”

“You’re smaller than you were, that’s all,” the goblin grinned in reply.

The car was indeed quite roomy and comfortable for such small beings. A box-shaped bench encircled it on the inside, serving as seat and locker, and at one side was a small tank of polished metal, with a pump attachment.

“What’s that thing?” the boy inquired, indicating the shining tank.

“What thing?” asked Fitz Mee.

“That shiny thing.”

“Why, that’s my air-tank and pump.”

“It looks just like the air machine papa has in his office,” Bob remarked. His father was a physician. “He uses his in treating people’s throats. What do you use yours for?”

“Don’t you know?” queried the goblin in surprise.

“No,” answered the boy.

“Well—well! It’s plain you never had anything to do with feather-bed ballooning. I use it in raising and lowering the balloon.”

“In raising and lowering the balloon?”

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“Certainly; that’s what I said.”

“But how do you use it?”

“I’ll show you in a minute,” Fitz Mee answered complacently. “You know how they raise and lower gas balloons, don’t you?”

“Yes, I—I guess so,” the boy replied, a little dubiously. “The gas raises ’em.”

“Of course,” snapped the goblin, “that’s the lifting power, and feathers raise feather-bed balloons. But what do they use for ballast in gas balloons, eh?”

“Sand bags,” Bob answered.

“Yes,” the goblin pursued; “and when they want to go higher they throw out sand, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And when they want to come down what do they do?”

“Let the gas out of the bag,” Bob said at a venture.

“That’s it,” Fitz Mee nodded. “And then they can’t go up again till they’ve refilled the bag—eh?”

“I guess that’s the way of it.”

“To be sure it is. Well, we work the thing better with our feather-bed balloons.”

“We?” Bob cried. “Do all goblins use feather-bed balloons?”

“Of course we do; that’s the way we travel. Didn’t you know that?”

“No; I never heard of it.”

“My—my!” Fitz Mee laughed. “You have a lot to learn, Bob. But I’ll show you how I can bring my balloon to earth or send it to the skies in a jiffy. When I wish to descend I just pump that tank full of compressed air. See?”

“No, I don’t see,” Bob declared.

“You don’t?” muttered the goblin, in surprise and irritation.

“No, I don’t.”

“Why, compressed air’s heavier than ordinary air, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, then, when I get that tank full the balloon’s heavier; and the increased weight overcomes the buoyancy of the feathers, and down I come.”

“Oh!”—in open-mouth admiration,—“that’s great! And when you want to go up again you just let the compressed air out, don’t you?”

“Sure!” blinked the goblin. “I’ll show you.”

He caught hold of the anchor rope, jerked the hook loose from the window-sill, and wound up the slender line. Then he flew to the air apparatus and turned a cock. Immediately there was the hiss of pent air escaping through a hole in the bottom of the tank, and the balloon began to ascend—slowly and gently at first, then more swiftly.

When it was a short distance above the housetop Fitz Mee closed the cock, remarking:

“There! I guess that’ll balance us about right. We’ll rise a few hundred feet and float there.”

His prediction proved true. When the balloon had cleared the hilltops, it stopped rising and floated motionless, like a great bubble with a dripping blob at its pendant point.

“Say!” Bob cried, suddenly.

“Well?” said the goblin.

“That tank looks just like the one papa has in his office.”

“It is just like it,” the goblin assured him.

“And the car looks just like mamma’s old clothes-basket.”

“Yes.”

“And the bag looks just like grandma’s old feather-bed.”

The goblin nodded and winked and smiled.

“Well,” Bob declared triumphantly, “I could take those things and make me a balloon.”

“Of course you could,” grinned Fitz Mee, “if you were going to stay at home.”

“And couldn’t I have fun showing off before the other boys!” Bob chuckled, gloatingly.

“You’ll have lots more fun with me, in Goblinland,” his companion said quickly.

“Maybe I will,” the boy murmured reflectively, a little sadly. Then observing that the balloon had stopped rising:

“Why, what made us stop going up?”

“Don’t you know?” the goblin returned with a half sneer.

“No, I don’t,” the lad admitted.

“Ho, ho!” Fitz Mee laughed, “You’re wonderfully dumb, you are, Roberty-Boberty.”

Bob bristled instantly.

“Don’t you call me names,” he cried angrily. “You old—old Epilepsy!”

“Epilepsy!” the goblin cackled hoarsely, holding his sides and weaving to and fro. “What does that word mean?”

“Fits,” the boy answered tersely.

“Ho—ho!” the goblin continued to tackle. “You call me names, but you don’t want me to call you names. Say, Bob?”

Bob made no reply.

“Bob?” Fitz repeated in as pleasant a voice as he could command.

Bob maintained a stubborn silence.

“Bob,” his companion went on, “the reason we stopped rising is because the weight of the balloon just balances an equal volume of air at this height. Understand?”

“Yes,” the lad muttered rather grumpily.

“All right, and if we wished to go higher—”

“We’d have to let out more of the compressed air,” Bob interrupted, brightly.

“And if we desired to descend—”

“We’d have to pump more into the tank.”

“Of course,” mumbled the goblin. “You’ll make a great aËronaut one of these days.”

Then he lifted a lid of the locker, took out a small instrument and busied himself with the manipulation of its mechanism. Bob leaned over the edge of the car and devoted his attention to the scene below.

Directly beneath lay the sleeping village, its roofs showing white in the bright moonlight. To east and west the hills rolled away, their summits hoary, their bases shadowy and obscure; and among them wound the placid river—a stream of molten silver threading the narrow vale. The roar of the distant mill-dam sounded sullen and indistinct, and the mists rising from it waved as fairy plumes and banners. The lad looked and listened, entranced, enraptured.

“How beautiful it all is!” he murmured feelingly to himself, a catch in his voice. “I—I like it; and I rather hate to leave it.”

“Homesick already, are you, before you’re out of sight of home?” Fitz Mee queried, his eyes upon the curious instrument he had placed in the bottom of the car.

“No, I’m not homesick!” Bob retorted sharply.

“You’re not?” Fitz grinned provokingly. “What did you mean by your words, then?”

“I was just admiring the beautiful scene, that’s all,” Bob explained.

“Oh!” ejaculated the goblin, wagging his head and saucily extruding his tongue.

“Uh-huh,” the lad nodded in return.

“Well, I’ll show you scenes far more beautiful—in Goblinland.”

It was Bob’s turn to sneer.

“Maybe you will,” he said.

“I will,” Fitz asserted positively.

“When?”

“When we get there, of course.”

“Yes; when we get there.”

“Well, we’ll get there.”

“We’re not going very fast; we’re still right over the town.”

And the boy laughed aloud, scornfully.

“We haven’t started yet,” the goblin countered.

“No; and we’re not likely to start, as far as I can see—unless a wind storm comes on; and it may blow us in any direction.”

“Bosh!” barked the goblin.

“Bosh, yourself!” snarled the boy.

“Say, Bob?”

“What?”

“Let’s quit quarreling.”

“All right.”

“Shake!”

They solemnly shook hands.

“Now,” the goblin cried briskly, “if you’re ready to say good-bye to home, we’ll be off.”

“I’m ready,” the lad answered; “but I don’t see how we’re going to be off.”

“I’ll show you. See that little instrument on the floor of the car?”

“That compass?”

“That’s not a compass.”

“It isn’t?”

“No.”

“Well, it looks like one. What is it?”

“A wireless selector.”

“And what’s that?”

“You’ve heard of wireless telegraph instruments?”

“Yes.”

“And you know they send messages with them without using wires, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then, too, you’ve heard or read that there are currents of electricity running around the globe in all directions, haven’t you?”

“I—I think I have; yes.”

“Well, the selector picks up or selects any current the operator desires, and enables him to travel over it in his balloon, using it as a propelling power.”

“Well—well!” Bob exploded, in frank admiration. “Just like a trolley car!”

“Yes, except no wire is needed.”

“I don’t see how you tell which way it’ll go, though.”

“The balloon?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll go whichever way the needle points.”

“Why will it?”

“Well, the needle of a compass points north, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Why does it?”

“Because—because—I don’t know, I guess,” Bob admitted.

“Because the attraction swings it, isn’t that it?”

“I suppose so.”

“Well, if the attraction swings the needle, won’t the needle swing the attraction?”

“I—I don’t know,” the boy stammered; “I never heard of such a thing!”

“Isn’t it a poor rule that won’t work both ways?”

“Yes; that’s what folks say, anyhow.”

“Well, it is—a mighty poor rule. Now I’ll show you. Watch me. I desire to travel due east; so I point this little needle in that direction. That done, I turn this thumb-screw, and off we start.”

Slowly the balloon began to move toward the east, over the village, across the river, gradually leaving the valley behind.

“I turn the screw a little more and a little more,” said the goblin, suiting the action to the words, “and we begin to travel faster and faster.”

Soon they were going at a rapid and exhilarating speed. The air appeared to whistle past as they cut through it; the moonlit landscape appeared to flow away behind and beneath them.

“My—my!” Bob cried, gleefully clapping his hands. “I never expected to travel as fast as this. Fitz, this is simply great.”

“You don’t call this gentle speed going fast, do you, Bob?” Fitz returned, grinning broadly.

“Indeed I do,” the boy replied earnestly.

“Oh, we’re just loafing along!” the goblin chuckled. “I’ll show you how I travel when I’m in a hurry to get along. Take off your cap, or you’ll lose it, and hold on to the car. Now!”

With the last word he gave another turn to the thumb-screw of the selector. The balloon leaped forward like a mad thing of life; the fragile car strained and quivered. Bob clutched the seat with both hands and held on for dear life. The air appeared to rush past in a cutting, shrieking tempest of wrath, that blinded and deafened the boy. He tried to scream out, but could not. He felt his grip upon the seat weakening, and, fearing he might be swept overboard, he loosened his hold and threw himself to the bottom of the car. There he lay, panting and gasping—sick with mortal terror. Then, of a sudden, the mad speed of the balloon began to slacken and the boy gradually gathered up courage to open his eyes and look around.

There sat the impish Fitz Mee by the selector, his hand upon the thumb-screw.

“Hello!” the goblin grinned apishly.

“Hello!” the boy muttered in reply.

“How did you like it?” queried the goblin.

“I didn’t like it,” answered the lad.

“Wasn’t it fast enough for you?”

“Too fast.”

“Oh!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wouldn’t you like to try it just a little bit faster, eh?”

“No sir!”

“It’s great fun—when you learn to like it.”

“Yes,” Bob grumbled; “and taking pills is great fun—when you learn to like ’em.”

“I can make the balloon go faster,” Fitz suggested.

“I’ll take your word for it,” Bob grinned, shaking his head.

They got up and seated themselves upon the locker.

“Well,” the goblin remarked, yawning, “what do you think of us goblins as balloonists?”

“I think you’re the candy,” Bob replied, his voice and manner evincing profound admiration.

“The candy?” snickered his companion. “What do you mean by that?”

“I think you’re the best ever.”

“Oh! Better than you humans, eh?”

“Far better.”

“That so?”

“Yes, indeed. And When I come back from Goblinland, I’m going to get patents on your air-ballast machine and your wireless selector; and some day I’ll be a mighty rich man—a millionaire.”

The goblin grinned a very broad grin.

“You’re going to take out patents on our inventions, you say, Bob?” he remarked.

“Yes,” the boy made reply.

“When you return from Goblinland, eh?”

“Yes.”

Fitz Mee gulped and screwed his features. Then he began to chuckle silently, and at last he burst out laughing.

“What’s the matter?” Bob inquired, half in wonder, half in pique.

“Oh, it’s so funny,” croaked the goblin, and he went into another spasm of rasping, cackling laughter.

“It must be funny,” the boy grunted peevishly. “But what’s so funny?”

“The thought of your returning from Goblinland, Bob,” Fitz Mee replied, sobering and wiping his eyes.

“Why, can’t I return—if I ever want to?”