“No, sir—not a thing.”
“W-e-ll, I—I don’t know. What will you do, Bob, if the mayor won’t let you go back home?”
“I’ll just die—that’s what!”
The goblin slapped his thin thighs and laughed and whooped, and laughed some more.
Out of patience, the lad screamed: “Laugh! Laugh till you burst, you old Convulsions! You old Spasms! You old Hysterics! Yeah! Yeah!”
And Fitz Mee did laugh—till he was entirely out of breath and panting and wheezing like a bellows. When at last he had regained control of himself, he whispered brokenly:
“Bob, we’ll—we’ll go and see—the mayor.”
And they caught up their caps and were off.
“So you wish to go home, boy—eh?” said the mayor, the august ruler of Goblinville and all adjacent territory, as soon as the two were ushered into his presence.