THROUGH A STORM IN A BALLOON
On awaking Bob was a little confused. But soon he remembered where he
was, and he sat up and blinked and looked around for his companion. Fitz
Mee stood upon the locker, a tiny binocular glued to his pop eyes, gazing
intently at the western horizon. It was gray daylight, and they were
making good speed.
“What’s the matter, Fitz?” Bob demanded, alert and interested at once.
“What’re you looking at?”
“Looking at a storm gathering,” the goblin replied, without turning his
head.
The boy rose to his feet, removed his fur coat, and wadded it into a ball
and stuffed it into the locker.
“Storm?” he said. “I don’t see any signs of a storm.”
“Don’t you see that blue line along the horizon?” Fitz asked.
“Yes. Is that the storm?”
“No; that’s the mountains we crossed. But take this glass and you can see
the storm gathering on their tops. See it?”
“My!” Bob exclaimed, the glass to his eyes. “I guess I _do_ see it! It’s
a black one, too; and it’s moving this way. How soon will it overtake us?”
This question he asked in some trepidation.
“It won’t overtake us at all, unless we care to have it do so,” the
goblin made answer.
“Why, can we outrun it?”
“Yes.”
“Sure?”
“Sure, if we want to.”
“Well, we’ll want to, won’t we?”
“It’ll be fun to wait till it’s nearly upon us and then run away from it,
I think. Don’t you?”
“I—I don’t know,” Bob returned, dubiously shaking his head, his gaze
still riveted upon the rising storm; “it _might_ not be fun.”
“You’re afraid,” sneered the goblin.
“No, I’m—I’m not.”
“Yes, you are; you’re a coward.”
“Don’t you call me that!” the lad cried, snatching the binocular from his
eyes and angrily turning upon his Companion.
“I won’t,” the goblin promised. “Now turn your glass toward the east.
What do you see?”
“I see the sea!” Bob cried rapturously.
“It’s plain to me as plain can be—
In fact, I see you see the sea,”
hummed Fitz Mee in sing-song. Then he continued:
“If you’ll take a glance at the ground beneath us, you’ll notice we’re
moving very slowly. I’m loitering—waiting for the storm to catch up with
us; then we’ll have a race with it, out across the ocean. In the meantime
we’ll have breakfast.”
[Illustration]
“Breakfast?” Bob questioned. “Where’s breakfast coming from?”
“From the locker,” smiled the goblin, rubbing his round little belly
and smacking his lips in anticipatory gusto, “where everything else we
need’ll come from. I always keep my air-ship stored for a long voyage,
for when I leave Goblinland on business, I never know when I’ll get back
home again. Are you hungry?”
“You bet!” was the lad’s expressive but inelegant rejoinder.
“Well, what do you think you need this morning? You can have whatever you
require.”
“What do I think I need?” Bob tittered. “What a question! I need
breakfast, of course, Fitz.”
“Of course,” snapped the goblin. “But do you need muscle food, or nerve
food, or fat food, or what?”
“I—I don’t know,” stammered the boy, scratching his head in perplexity.
“I never heard of such things, I guess. I know what I’d _like_, though;
I’d like steak and gravy and hot biscuits, and some fruit and a glass of
milk.”
“Huh!” the goblin snorted in supreme contempt. “You’ll find, Bob, we
don’t indulge in such indigestible truck in Goblinland. Our foods are
scientifically prepared, not slapped together haphazard. We use nothing
but the concentrated extracts—the active principals of food stuffs. I’ll
show you.”
He went to the locker and brought forth a small leather hand-case or
satchel.
“Why—why,” Bob muttered, his eyes bulging, “that looks just like papa’s
medicine-case!”
“Well, it isn’t,” Fitz Mee grunted irritably; “it’s my portable pantry.”
And he loosened the catch and flung the case open, displaying several
rows of tiny bottles containing tablets and pellets of various shapes,
sizes and colors.
“Ugh!” the boy gagged. “Pills!”
“They’re not pills,” rasped the goblin; “they’re food tablets and drink
pellets.”
“They’re pills to me, all the same.”
“They’re not pills, I tell you,” Fitz Mee reiterated sharply, snapping
his jaws shut and angrily grating his teeth. “Now I’ll select what you’re
to eat; and you’ll eat it. The storm’s approaching rapidly; I hear the
thunder muttering and see the black clouds rolling. So you’ll need
something to make you strong and courageous. Here’s a tiger-muscle tablet
and a lion-heart tablet. Down ’em.”
Bob shut his mouth and shook his head.
“Down ’em!” the goblin repeated.
“Uk-uh!” the lad grunted.
“You must!”
“I won’t!”
“You’ll starve if you don’t eat.”
“I’d rather starve than take pills.”
“Nonsense!”
“I would!”
“It won’t take you but a second to swallow ’em, Bob,” Fitz Mee said
coaxingly. “That’s one of the advantages of our kind of food; it don’t
take long to eat a meal.”
“I never begrudged the time I spent in eating,” Bob remarked, with rather
a sickly grin.
“Well, down the tablets—that’s a good boy.”
“Are those—those things all you’ve got to eat?”
“Yes.”
“And don’t you have anything else in Goblinland?”
“No, of course not.”
“Oh, dear!” wailed the boy. “I wish I was back home! Nothing to eat but
pills! Golly!”
“There, there, Bob!” the goblin said soothingly, kindly even. “You don’t
wish you were back home; you’re just hungry and nervous. Take these
tablets and you’ll be all right in a jiffy.”
Bob silently held out his hand, his face a picture of lugubrious woe, and
silently took the tablets and swallowed them.
Fitz Mee idly fingered the tiny bottles in the case for a minute or two,
mumbling over the names upon the labels. Then he looked up and asked:
“Feel better, Bob?”
“Yes,” the lad admitted rather reluctantly, “I feel stronger and better,
but I’m still awful empty.”
“But you’re not hungry?”
“No; just hollow-like.”
“That’s because you’ve been used to filling your stomach with gross
food,” the goblin stated sagely; “you’ll get over that condition after
you’ve lived on tablets and pellets a month or two.”
“A month or two!” the lad groaned. “Oh, dear!”
“You haven’t had anything to drink,” Fitz remarked, smiling brightly.
“Take this pellet.”
“What is it?”
“A water pellet. It contains a pint of water.”
“That teenty-weenty thing?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, nonsense!”
“It does.”
“I don’t believe it; it can’t.”
“You down it and you’ll soon see.”
Bob took the tiny clear pellet and instantly announced:
“My thirst’s all gone, Fitz, and I feel fuller.”
“But you’re still a little lank—a little empty-like, eh?”
“A little, yes.”
“Well, I’ll fix you. Take this.”
“Oh, stop,” the boy demurred. “I’m not going to take all the pills in
that case.”
“This is the last dose I’ll ask you to take,” the goblin returned,
batting his eyes at a bright flash of lightning from the rapidly
approaching storm.
“Well, what is it?” Bob demanded, dodging the sharp clap of thunder
almost immediately following the lightning.
“A sponge tablet.”
“What’s it for?”
“It’s to absorb some of the water you’ve taken, and to swell and fill
your stomach.”
“I don’t want it—I don’t need it,” Bob said, decidedly shaking his head.
“All right,” Fitz laughed, “you don’t have to take it. We just make ’em
for folks who aren’t satisfied unless their stomachs are full all the
time. Now I’ll eat my breakfast.”
He hastily selected and swallowed a number of tablets and pellets; then
he closed the leather case with a bang and a snap and thrust it into the
locker.
“Now,” he smiled, “I guess we’re all ready to play tag with that tempest.
And we’ll show it a thing or two—oh, _won’t_ we!”
“Maybe it’ll show us a thing or two,” Bob replied, grinning a sickly grin
and shaking his head dubiously. “It’s getting pretty close and I don’t
like the looks of it. My! Just see those clouds rolling and whirling!
Fitz, I believe it’s a cyclone!”
“No, it isn’t,” his companion muttered contemptuously; “it’s nothing but
a summer thunder gust.”
By this time the storm was close upon them, coming swiftly. The lightning
was forking and flashing incessantly; the thunder was crackling and
crashing continuously. Bob gazed at the rolling, tumbling masses of black
clouds, at the play of electricity, and the forest and fruit trees
bending before the blast, and shivered; he listened to the mingled,
indescribable uproar of booming thunder and bellowing wind, and shuddered.
“Oh, let’s be off, Fitz!” he pleaded.
“We’re off!” his comrade cried, giving a half turn to the thumb-screw of
the selector.
Before the raging storm they sped, the boy frightened and miserable,
the goblin elated and jubilant. Rapidly they approached the ocean, and
soon they were sailing over a city on the shore. Binocular in hand, Bob
watched the storm behind and the earth beneath, and trembled. He saw
people rushing to shelter; saw fences and groves leveled, and skyscrapers
and steeples sent crashing to earth.
“Oh, Fitz—Fitz!” the lad groaned. “It _is_ a cyclone!”
“I guess it is,” the goblin answered nonchalantly.
“And it’s coming closer!” the boy cried in terror. “Let’s go faster!”
“Oh, this is all right; this is fine sport,” the goblin laughed, capering
about the car and gleefully rubbing his hands.
Out over the ocean they flew—out of sight of land—out over the boundless
expanse of heaving, tossing waters. After them raced the storm, each
minute drawing a little nearer and a little nearer. It was almost upon
them!
“Please, please let’s go faster, Fitz!” Bob screeched, dancing up and
down in an ecstacy of keen affright.
[Illustration]
But his shrill cry was whirled away in the tumult of rushing air that
enveloped them, and if the goblin heard, which is doubtful, he paid no
attention to his companion’s frantic plea. Then of a sudden the balloon
stopped with a smart jerk and began to whirl round and round dizzily.
Fitz Mee’s fat face went white as paper, and he let out a cry of alarm
and dismay.
“What’s the matter, Fitz?” Bob bawled, staggering to his comrade’s side
and shouting in his ear. “What’s the matter?”
“The lightning has magnetized the selector!” the goblin bellowed. “Look
at the needle—pointing right back toward the storm! We’re drifting right
back into it! There is nothing now to prevent it!”
It was too true!
Immediately they were engulfed—overwhelmed in the maelstrom of cloud
and wind and rain. They could neither see nor hear for the fury of the
elements. The balloon spun round and round like a top; the light car
jerked and swayed and shot this way and that with lightning-like and
awful suddenness. One of the small ropes supporting it broke and hung
dangling from the side. Another parted and the car sagged dangerously.
A frightful lurch and Fitz Mee was flung upon the locker, the breath
knocked out of him; another lurch, and, with a despairing scream that
sounded above the deafening tumult of the tornado, he rolled overboard
and disappeared.
Bob threw himself into the bottom of the car, his eyes tight shut, his
palms over his ears, and lay there groaning and moaning. His comrade
was gone and he gave himself up for lost. Oh, how he wished he was safe
at home! But in the midst of the tumultuous storm and his tumultuous
thoughts a bright idea suddenly came to him. He started, he sprang to
his feet and was flung flat again. Then, shaking his head and gritting
his chattering teeth, he wriggled over to the air-tank and turned the
cock. The hiss of the escaping air was music to him. Little by little the
buffeted balloon rose, and soon it floated serenely above the zone of the
warring winds and clouds. Bob was saved!
A little while he lay upon the floor of the car, looking at the clear sky
overhead and wondering what he was to do. Then he thought of his lost
companion, and murmured feelingly:
“Poor old Fitz! Poor old Spasms!”
As if in answer to his pitying words, he heard a voice calling faintly
but snappishly:
“Bob, you rascal! Don’t you dare to call me Spasms!”
Electrified, the boy sprang to his feet and looked all around.
“Fitz!” he ejaculated. “But where can he be?” Then in superstitious fear:
“He’s dead; it must be his ghost!”
“Ghost nothing!” came the voice again, a little louder, more vigorous.
“Bob, you’re a fool!”
“Is—is that you, Fitz?” the boy faltered in reply.
“Of course, dunce!”
“Well, where are you?”
“Right down here, dummy!”
Bob flew to the side of the car, hunkered upon the locker and peered
over. There, a few feet down, was Fitz Mee hanging to one of the broken
ropes.
“Why—why, Fitz, what are you doing down there?” Bob asked foolishly.
“Oh, just enjoying myself; surely you can see that,” the goblin sneered
wrathfully. “But I’ve had enough; I’m no pig. Pull me up.”
“I don’t know whether I can or not,” Bob answered. “But reach me up your
hand; I’ll try.”
After a deal of struggling and kicking and grunting on the part of both,
Fitz was safely aboard.
“I thought I was a goner when I fell over,” he panted; “I just happened
to catch the rope.” Then, with unusual feeling: “And you saved us both,
Bob, by thinking to let out the air. I couldn’t have hung on, in that
storm, a minute longer; and, then the balloon was fast going to wreck. It
was my foolhardiness that caused all the trouble, and your thoughtfulness
that got us out of it. I’ll never go back on you, Bob, old boy, never!
But now the storm’s past, we must get under way again.”
“Will the selector work?” the boy asked in some anxiety.
“It’ll be all right, now,” the goblin assured him. “See? Off we go again.
And I’ll give her an extra turn for good speed; I’m keen to get along
toward home. It must be the middle of the forenoon.”
For an hour or two they sailed along steadily, covering mile after mile
of aërial space with the swiftness of an arrow. At last, however, Bob
remarked:
“Fitz, it appears to me we’re closer to the ocean than we were a while
back; we must be descending. I wonder if the rain wet the feathers in the
bag.”
“No,” the goblin replied positively. “They can’t get wet. They, and the
bag, too, for that matter, have been treated with goose oil; and they
won’t wet.”
“Won’t wet?”
“No. You know a goose’s feathers never get wet, no matter how much it
goes in the water. We raise thousands of geese in Goblinland just for the
feathers and the oil to treat them and our balloon bags with. We can’t be
descending, Bob.”
But he stepped to the side of the car and cast his eyes upward. Then
suddenly he started and collapsed upon the seat, white and trembling.
“What is it, what’s the matter, Fitz?” the lad questioned falteringly,
fearing what the answer would be.
“Bob,” his companion muttered hoarsely, “we are descending! We’re
lost—we’ll be drowned in the ocean! There’s a rip in the bag and the
feathers are escaping one by one!”