Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 61441-h.htm or 61441-h.zip:
(https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/61441/pg61441-images.html)
or
(https://www.gutenberg.org/files/61441/61441-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive--See
https://archive.org/details/littlegreengobli00nayl
and through the Library of Congress--See
https://www.loc.gov/item/07024772
[Illustration: It was a most beautiful sight, that city. (See page 103.)]
THE LITTLE GREEN GOBLIN
by
JAMES BALL NAYLOR.
Illustrated by Harry·L·Miller·
The Saalfield Publishing Company.
·New York· ·Akron·Ohio· ·Chicago·
H. L. Miller · 1907.
Copyright, 1907
by
The Saalfield Publishing Company
[Illustration]
[Illustration: ILLUSTRATIONS]
It was a most beautiful sight, that city. _Frontispiece_
A broad band of moonlight streamed in at the open window. 36
He picked up a large knotted pole for a cane. 82
Two giants stood triumphantly grinning down upon twenty pygmies. 134
Bob and his comrade went straight to the mayor’s office. 160
“If you’re rested now, we’ll resume our sight-seeing.” 176
[Illustration: CONTENTS.]
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Midnight Visit from the Little Green Goblin 9
II. Bob Becomes an Aëronaut 25
III. Through a Storm in a Balloon 43
IV. In Danger of the Sea 57
V. In which Bob Becomes a Giant 71
VI. Lost in the Desert 87
VII. Fitz Mee Magnetizes the Spring 101
VIII. The Balloonists Encounter Arabs 117
IX. A Wireless Message to Headquarters 131
X. Arrived in Goblinland 143
XI. In the Land where You Do as You Please 159
XII. Before the Mayor of Goblinland 173
CHAPTER I
A MIDNIGHT VISIT FROM THE LITTLE GREEN GOBLIN
Little Bob Taylor was mad, discouraged, and thoroughly miserable.
Things had gone wrong—as things have the perverse habit of doing with
mischievous, fun-loving boys of ten—and he was disgruntled, disgusted.
The school year drawing to a close had been one of dreary drudgery; at
least that was the retrospective view he took of it. And warm, sunshiny
weather had come—the season for outdoor sports and vagrant rambles—and
the end was not yet. Still he was a galley slave in the gilded barge of
modern education; and open and desperate rebellion was in his heart.
One lesson was not disposed of before another intrusively presented
itself, and tasks at home multiplied with a fecundity rivaling that of
the evils of Pandora’s box. Yes, Bob was all out of sorts. School was a
bore; tasks at home were a botheration, and life was a frank failure. He
knew it; and what he _knew_ he knew.
He had come from school on this particular day in an irritable, surly
mood, to find that the lawn needed mowing, that the flower-beds needed
weeding,—and just when he desired to steal away upon the wooded hillside
back of the house and make buckeye whistles! He had demurred, grumbled
and growled, and his father had rebuked him. Then he had complained of
a headache, and his mother had given him a pill—a pill! think of it—and
sent him off to bed.
[Illustration]
So here he was, tossing upon his own little bed in his own little room
at the back of the house. It was twilight. The window was open, and the
sweet fragrance of the honeysuckle flowers floated in to him. Birds were
chirping and twittering as they settled themselves to rest among the
sheltering boughs of the wild cherry tree just without, and the sounds of
laughter and song came from the rooms beneath, where the other members
of the family were making merry. Bob was hurt, grieved. Was there such
a thing as justice in the whole world? He doubted it! And he wriggled
and squirmed from one side of the bed to the other, kicked the footboard
and dug his fists into the pillows—burning with anger and consuming
with self-pity. At last the gathering storm of his contending emotions
culminated in a downpour of tears, and weeping, he fell asleep.
“Hello! Hello, Bob! Hello, Bob Taylor!”
Bob popped up in bed, threw off the light coverings and stared about him.
A broad band of moonlight streamed in at the open window, making the room
almost as light as day. Not a sound was to be heard. The youngster peered
into the shadowy corners and out into the black hallway, straining his
ears. The clock down stairs struck ten deliberate, measured strokes.
“I thought I heard somebody calling me,” the lad muttered; “I must have
been dreaming.”
He dropped back upon his pillows and closed his eyes.
“Hello, Bob!”
The boy again sprang to a sitting posture, as quick as a jack-in-a-box,
his eyes and mouth wide open. He was startled, a little frightened.
“Hel—hello yourself!” he quavered.
“I’m helloing you,” the voice replied. “I’ve no need to hello myself;
_I’m_ awake.”
Bob looked all around, but could not locate the speaker.
“I’m awake, too,” he muttered; “at least I guess I am.”
“Yes, you’re awake all right enough now,” the voice said; “but I nearly
yelled a lung loose getting you awake.”
“Well, where are you?” the boy cried.
A hoarse, rasping chuckle was the answer, apparently coming from the open
window. Bob turned his eyes in that direction and blinked and stared,
and blinked again; for there upon the sill, distinctly visible in the
streaming white moonlight, stood the oddest, most grotesque figure the
boy had ever beheld. Was it a dwarfed and deformed bit of humanity, or a
gigantic frog masquerading in the garb of a man? Bob could not tell; so
he ventured the very natural query:
“What are you?”
“I’m a goblin,” his nocturnal visitor made reply, in a harsh strident,
parrot-like voice.
“A goblin?” Bob questioned.
“Yes.”
“Well, what’s a goblin?”
“Don’t you know?” in evident surprise.
“No.”
“Why, boy—boy! Your education has been sadly amiss.”
“I know it,” Bob replied with unction, his school grievances returning in
full force to his mind. “But what is a goblin? Anything like a gobbler?”
“Stuff!” his visitor exclaimed in a tone of deep disgust. “Anything
like a gobbler! Bob, you ought to be ashamed. Do I look anything like a
turkey?”
“No, you look like a frog,” the boy laughed.
“Shut up!” the goblin croaked.
“I won’t!” snapped the boy.
“Look here!” cried the goblin. “Surely you know what goblins are. You’ve
read of ’em—you’ve seen their pictures in books, haven’t you?”
“I think I have,” Bob said reflectively, “but I don’t know just what they
are.”
“You know what a man is, don’t you?” the goblin queried.
“Of course.”
“Well, what _is_ a man?”
“Huh?” the lad cried sharply.
“What is a man?”
“Why, a man’s a—a—a _man_,” Bob answered, lamely.
“Good—very good;” the goblin chuckled, interlocking his slim fingers over
his protuberant abdomen and rocking himself to and fro upon his slender
legs. “I see your schooling’s done you _some_ good. Yes, a man’s a man,
and a goblin’s a goblin. Understand? It’s all as clear as muddy water,
when you think it over. Hey?”
“You explain things just like my teacher does,” the boy muttered
peevishly.
“How’s that?” the goblin inquired, seating himself upon the sill and
drawing his knees up to his chin.
“Why, when we ask him a question, he asks us one in return; and when we
answer it, he tangles us all up and leaves us that way.”
“Does he?” the goblin grinned.
“Yes, he does,” sullenly.
“He must be a good teacher.”
“He is good—good for nothing,” snappishly.
The goblin hugged his slim shanks and laughed silently. He was a
diminutive fellow, not more than a foot in height. His head was large;
his body was pursy. A pair of big, waggling ears, a broad, flat nose,
two small, pop eyes and a wide mouth made up his features. His dress
consisted of a brimless, peaked cap, cutaway coat, long waistcoat, tight
fitting trousers and a pair of tiny shoes—all of a vivid green color. His
was indeed an uncouth and queer figure!
“Say!” Bob cried, suddenly.
“Huh?” the goblin ejaculated, throwing back his head and nimbly
scratching his chin with the toe of his shoe.
“What are you called?”
“Sometimes I’m called the Little Green Goblin of Goblinville.”
“Oh!”
“Yes.”
“But what’s your name?”
“Fitz.”
“Fitz?”
“Yes.”
“Fitz what?”
“Fitz Mee.”
“Fits you?” laughed Bob. “I guess it does.”
“No!” rasped the goblin. “Not Fitz _Hugh_; Fitz _Mee_.”
“That’s what I said,” giggled the boy, “fits you.”
“I know you did; but _I_ didn’t. _I_ said Fitz _Mee_.”
“I can’t see the difference,” said Bob, with a puzzled shake of the head.
“Oh, you can’t!” sneered the goblin.
“No, I can’t!”—bristling pugnaciously.
“Huh!”—contemptuously—“I say my name is Fitz _Mee_; you say it is Fitz
_Hugh_; and you can’t see the difference, hey?”
“Oh, that’s what you mean—that your name is Fitz Mee,” grinned Bob.
“Of course it’s what I mean,” the goblin muttered gratingly; “it’s what I
said; and a goblin always says what he means and means what he says.”
“Where’s your home?” the boy ventured to inquire.
“In Goblinville,” was the crisp reply.
“Goblinville?”
“Yes; the capital of Goblinland.”
“And where’s that?”
“A long distance east or a long distance west.”
“Well, which?”
“Either or both.”
“Oh, that can’t be!” Bob cried.
“It can’t?”
“Why, no.”
“Why can’t it?”
“The place can’t be east and west both—from here.”
“But it can, and it is,” the goblin insisted.
“Is that so?”—in profound wonder.
“Yes; it’s on the opposite side of the globe.”
“Oh, I see.”
The goblin nodded, batting his pop eyes.
“Well, what are you doing here?” Bob pursued.
“Talking to you,” grinned the goblin.
“I know that,” the lad grumbled irritably. “But what brought you here?”
“A balloon.”
“Oh, pshaw! What did you come here for?”
“For you.”
“For me?”
“Yes; you don’t like to live in this country, and I’ve come to take you
to a better one.”
“To Goblinland?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a better country than this—for boys?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“In what way is it better?” Bob demanded, shrewdly. “Tell me about it.”
“Well,” the goblin went on to explain, unclasping his hands and
stretching his slender legs full length upon the window-sill, “in your
country a boy isn’t permitted to do what pleases him, but is compelled to
do what pleases others. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, it is,” the lad muttered.
“But in our land,” the goblin continued, “a boy isn’t permitted to do
what pleases _others_, but is compelled to do what pleases _himself_.”
“Oh!” ejaculated Bob, surprised and pleased. “That’s great. I’d like to
live in Goblinland.”
“Of course you would,” said the goblin, placing a finger alongside of his
flat nose and winking a pop eye. “Your parents and your teacher don’t
know how to treat you—don’t appreciate you; they don’t understand boys.
You’d better come along with me.”
“I’ve a notion to,” Bob replied thoughtfully. Then, abruptly: “But how
did you find out about me, that I was dissatisfied with things here?”
“Oh, we know everything that’s going on,” the goblin grinned; “we get
wireless telephone messages from all over the world. Whenever anybody
says anything—or thinks anything, even—we learn of it; and if they’re in
trouble some one of us good little goblins sets off to help them.”
“Why, how good of you!” Bob murmured, in sincere admiration. “You chaps
are a bully lot!”
“Yes, indeed,” the goblin giggled; “we’re a good-hearted lot—_we_ are.
Oh, you’ll just love and worship us when you learn all about us!”
And the little green sprite almost choked with some suppressed emotion.
“I’m going with you,” the boy said, with sudden decision. “Will your
balloon carry two, though?”
“We can manage that,” said the goblin. “Come here to the window and take
a squint at my aërial vehicle.”
[Illustration]
Bob crawled to the foot of the bed and peeped out the window. There hung
the goblin’s balloon, anchored to the window-sill by means of a rope and
hook. The bag looked like a big fat feather bed and the car resembled
a large Willow clothes-basket. The boy was surprised, and not a little
disappointed.
“And you came here in that thing?” he asked, unable to conceal the
contempt he felt for the primitive and clumsy-looking contraption.
“Of course I did,” Fitz Mee made answer.
“And how did you get from the basket to the window here?”
“Slid down the anchor-rope.”
“Oh!” Bob gave an understanding nod. “And you’re going to climb the rope,
when you go?”
“Yes; can you climb it?”
“Why, I—I _could_ climb it,” Bob replied, slowly shaking his head; “but
I’m not going to.”
“You’re not?” cried the goblin.
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’m not going to risk my life in any such a balloon as that. It looks
like an old feather bed.”
“It _is_ a feather bed,” Fitz answered, complacently.
“What!”
The goblin nodded sagely.
“Whee!” the lad whistled. “You don’t mean what you say, do you? You mean
it’s a bed tick filled with gas, don’t you?”
“I mean just what I say,” Fitz Mee replied, positively. “That balloon bag
is a feather bed.”
“But a feather bed won’t float in the air,” Bob objected.
“Won’t it?” leered the goblin.
“No.”
“How do you know? Did you ever try one to see?”
“N—o.”
“Well, one feather, a downy feather, will fly in the air, and carry its
own weight and a little more, won’t it?”
“Yes,” the lad admitted, wondering what the goblin was driving at.
“Then won’t thousands of feathers confined in a bag fly higher and lift
more than one feather alone will?”
“No,” positively.
“Tut—tut!” snapped the goblin. “You don’t know anything of the law of
physics, it appears. Won’t a thousand volumes of gas confined in a bag
fly higher and lift more than one volume unconfined will?”
“Why, of course,” irritably.
“Well!”—triumphantly,—“don’t the same law apply to feathers? Say!”
“I—I don’t know,” Bob stammered, puzzled but unconvinced.
“To be sure it does,” the goblin continued, smoothly. “I know; I’ve tried
it. And you can see for yourself that my balloon’s a success.”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t carry _me_,” Bob objected; “I’m too heavy.”
“I’ll have to shrink you,” Fitz Mee said quietly.
“_Shrink_ me?” drawing back in alarm bordering on consternation.
“Yes; it won’t hurt you.”
“How—how’re you going to do it?”
“I’ll show you.”
The goblin got upon his feet, took a small bottle from his waistcoat
pocket and deliberately unscrewed the top and shook out a tiny tablet.
“There,” he said, “take that.”
“Uk-uh!” grunted Bob, compressing his lips and shaking his head. “I don’t
like to take pills.”
“This isn’t a pill,” Fitz explained, “it’s a tablet.”
“It’s all the same,” the boy declared obstinately.
“Won’t you take it?”
“No.”
“Then you can’t go with me.”
“I can’t?”
The goblin shook his head.
“Isn’t there some other way you can—can shrink me?”
Again Fitz Mee silently shook his head.
“W-e-ll,” Bob said slowly and reluctantly, “I’ll take it. But, say?”
“Well?”
“What’ll it do to me—just make me smaller?”
“That’s all.”
“How small will it make me?”
“About my size,” grinned the goblin.
“Oo—h!” ejaculated Bob. “And will it make me as—as _ugly_ as you are?” in
grave concern.
The goblin clapped his hands over his stomach, wriggled this way and that
and laughed till the tears ran down his fat cheeks.
“Oh—ho!” he gasped at last. “So you think me ugly, do you?”
“Yes, I do,” the lad admitted candidly, a little nettled.
“Well, that’s funny,” gurgled the goblin; “for that’s what I think of
you. So you see the matter of looks is a matter of taste.”
“Huh!” Bob snorted contemptuously. “But will that tablet change my looks?
That’s what _I_ want to know.”
“No, it won’t,” was the reassuring reply.
“And will I always be small—like you?”
“Look here!” Fitz Mee croaked hoarsely. “If you’re going with me, stop
asking fool questions and take this tablet.”
“Give it to me,” Bob muttered, in sheer desperation.
And he snatched the tablet and swallowed it.
Immediately he shrunk to the size of the goblin.
“My!” he cried. “It feels funny to be so little and light.”
He sprang from the bed to the window-sill, and anticly danced a jig in
his night garment.
“Get into your clothes,” the goblin commanded, “and let’s be off.”
Bob nimbly leaped to the floor, tore off his night-robe and caught up his
trousers. Then he paused, a look of comical consternation upon his apple
face.
“What’s the matter?” giggled the goblin.
“Why—why,” the boy gasped, his mouth wide open, “my clothes are all a
mile too big for me!”
Fitz Mee threw himself prone upon his stomach, pummeled and kicked the
window-sill, and laughed uproariously.