Fitz Mee closed the little box and returned it to his pocket; Bob resumed the munching of his ripe fruit.
“Won’t you have some, Fitz?” he suggested, temptingly displaying it to the goblin’s gaze.
“Uk-uh!” Fitz grunted.
“Better try some; it’s fine.”
“It would make me sick.”
“Pshaw!”—incredulously, contemptuously.
“I’m afraid it would; I’m afraid it will make you sick.”
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Huh! Fruit never makes me sick; I can eat bushels of it.”