Bob looked very sober, and said nothing; and Fitz continued:
“So you see we were both wrong; we forgot that the sun is south at noon—that’s all. Isn’t it funny?” and again the goblin laughed.
“I don’t think it very funny,” the boy replied, pouting his lips, and looking very glum.
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why don’t you?”
“Because here we are in the desert—away south of where we ought to be; and the selector won’t work, and we can’t go back—can’t go in any direction but south. If we keep on, we’ll just come to the south pole—that’s all.”
“Say!” the goblin cried. “I never thought of that, Bob. That’s so; and we’re in a fix, sure.” Then, after wrinkling his forehead and blinking thoughtfully for a few moments: “Well, there’s just one thing to do: we’ve got to fix the selector—got to find out what ails it and set it right. We’ll travel on till we come to an oasis; and there we’ll descend to the ground, and I’ll tinker the machine.”
“Why can’t you do it here and now?” Bob suggested.