The chemists came in, three aged and bewhiskered goblins wearing long, black robes and silk skull caps.
“My good chemists,” said the mayor, “are you ready for the experiment?”
“All ready, your honor,” the eldest of the three made answer, bowing profoundly.
“To work, then,” the mayor commanded.
The younger two advanced and caught and held Bob’s hands, their fingers upon his pulse. The eldest produced a tiny phial of thick, opalescent liquid.
“Put out your tongue,” he said to the boy.
The lad unhesitatingly obeyed, and the aged and trembling chemist let a drop of the viscid liquid fall upon the tip of the youngster’s quivering organ of speech.
The effect was instantaneous and startling, if not marvelous. Bob let out a mad bellow of pain, shaking his head and writhing and drooling. The mayor changed countenance and deprecatingly shook his head. Fitz Mee groaned aloud.