“Yes, sir,” Bob answered humbly. Then, with boyish inquisitiveness: “But how did you know it?”
“Never mind,” was the gruff reply. “It will please you to return home will it?”
“Yes, sir, indeed it will.”
“Then you must go. Be off at once.”
“But—but—” Bob began.
“I’ll fix all that,” his honor interrupted, quickly divining what the boy meant to say. “I’m as anxious to be rid of you as you are to be gone. You’ve stirred up a pretty rumpus here—you have. You’re the first human boy that ever came into my domain; and you’ll be the last. But I trust your experience has done you good—eh?”
Bob nodded.
“Very well, then. Sign this pledge that you won’t reveal what you’ve seen and learned, and that you’ll take the lesson to heart.”
Bob gladly signed the pledge.
“Now,” continued the mayor, his eyes snapping humorously, “these are the conditions under which you must leave my domain: I’ll call in the chemists and have them restore you to normal size; I’ve already communicated with them, and they assure me they can do it. Then I’ll let the honorable and worthy Fitz Mee take my state balloon and carry you back to Yankeeland. You will set out this afternoon at one o’clock. But one other thing I exact: you must bear nothing away with you that you did not bring here with you.” And the mayor gave the boy a keen, meaningful look that the urchin could not interpret.