The goblin laughed outright.
“Bob, you’re a precious donkey!” he cried. “True, the workers in the factories toil hard at dirty work—work that shortens their lives in some cases; but they’re inured to it, and they don’t mind it as much as you think. And what would you? All labor is hard, if one but thinks so; there are no soft snaps, if one does his duty. It’s the way of the goblin world, and it’s the way of the human world. All must labor, all must suffer more or less; there’s no escape for the highest or the lowest. And work has its compensation, has its reward; it—”
“Oh, shut up!” the lad muttered petulantly. “I don’t want to hear any more. You talk just like my papa does. I wish I’d never been born, if I’ve got to grow up and work. So there!”
“You’ll never grow up, if you stay in Goblinville, Bob,” Fitz Mee said softly; but his pop eyes were twinkling humorously. “And you won’t have to work—not much, anyhow.”
Bob sat soberly silent; evidently he was doing some deep thinking.
The goblin went on: “If you’re rested now, we’ll resume our sight-seeing.”
“I don’t want to see any more,” the lad grunted pugnaciously; “and I’m not going to, either.”
“Yes, come on.”
“I won’t do it.”