“Yes.”
“Well, that’s Goblinland.”
“Oo—h!” Bob muttered. “It must be a pretty cold place to live.” And his teeth chattered sympathetically at the thought.
“No, it isn’t,” the goblin assured him. “You see Goblinland is really the crater of a volcano.”
“The crater of a volcano?” said Bob, in mild consternation.
“Yes,” Fitz laughed. “But you needn’t be alarmed, Bob; it’s an extinct volcano. Still the crust over it is so thin that the ground is always warm and the climate mild. Now we’re getting right over the place. Release the selector and pump up the air-tank; and we’ll soon cast anchor in port.”
As they slowly descended Bob swept his eyes here and there, greedily taking in the scene. Goblinland was indeed the crater of an immense ancient volcano. The great pit was several miles in diameter and several hundred feet in depth, walled in by perpendicular cliffs of shiny, black, volcanic rock. Through the middle of this natural amphitheater ran a clear mountain brook; and on either side of the stream, near the center of the plain, were the rows of tiny stone houses constituting Goblinville. Shining white roadways wound here and there, graceful little bridges spanned the brook, and groves of green trees and beds of blooming flowers were everywhere.
“How beautiful!” Bob exclaimed involuntarily.
“Yes,” the goblin nodded, his eyes upon the village below, “to me, at least; it’s my home.”