CHAPTER VIII
THE BALLOONISTS ENCOUNTER ARABS
Fitz Mee let out a frantic yell as he descended; Bob echoed it. “I’m a goner!” squeaked the goblin as he alighted on the lion’s back.
“Goner!” screamed the boy, in unison.
The lion, no doubt coupling the sudden arrival of the little green sprite with the unusual condition of the spring he had always known, went mad with fright. He stuck his tail between his hind legs, gave a snort, followed by a prolonged and doleful whine, and scampered away among the trees and across the sands of the desert, the goblin clinging to his mane.
“Oh, dear—dear!” moaned the boy. “What am I to do? What can I do? Poor old Fitz Mee! Poor old Convulsions! The lion’ll shake him off out there—and—and eat him up! And I can’t help him! I don’t dare to go to his aid; the other beasts would eat me! Was ever a boy in such a pickle! Oh, I wish I was back home! I do—I do! I was a fool to come on such a wild adventurous trip, anyhow! Poor old Fitz Mee! Poor old Epilepsy! Gone! Lost! And here I am down here in the desert—with miles of trackless sands all around me; and with no means of getting away—except an old balky balloon! Oh, dear—dear!”
He wrung his hands and wept. At last, however, he muttered sleepily: “Poor unlucky old Fitz! He’s always getting into trouble and danger; he’s always tumbling out of the balloon. I’ve rescued him two or three times; but I can’t go on rescuing him every few hours. He’ll have to look out for himself this time; I can’t do anything for him. And,”—yawning,—“I’m so—so sleepy. I’ve just got to—sleep; that’s all—all—there is—”
He sank upon the bottom of the car and lost all sense of his surroundings.