“Well, where does the electricity come from, then?”
“From the bug under the cone.”
“The bug?”
“Yes, the electric firefly. Didn’t you ever see one?”
Bob shook his head—half in negation, half in incredulity.
“Well, I guess they’re peculiar to Goblinland, then,” Fitz went on, grinning impishly. “We raise them here by thousands and use them for lighting purposes. The electric firefly is a great bug. Like the electric eel, it gives one a shock if he touches it; and like the ordinary firefly, it sheds light—but electric light, and very bright. I’ll show you.” He gingerly lifted the perforated cone.
There lay a bug, sure enough, a bug about the size of a hickory-nut, and so scintillant, so bright, that the eye could hardly gaze upon it.
“And this is the only kind of light you have in Goblinland, Fitz?” the boy asked.
“Yes. We light our houses, our streets, our factories, our mines, everything with them.”
“Wonderful!” Bob exclaimed. “And what do you do for fire, for heat?”