“For this reason, Bob: you take that gold back to Yankeeland, and tell where you got it—”
“But I won’t tell where I got it,” the lad interrupted.
Unheeding, the goblin continued: “And your money-mad people will search out our country and conquer and ruin us.”
“Oh, pshaw, Fitz!”
“What I say is true, Bob.”
But Bob was neither convinced nor satisfied, and he resolved to have the nuggets at all hazard. Where was the harm? The gold was of no value to the goblins; it would be of great value to him. And he wouldn’t say a word about where he got it—indeed he wouldn’t. He would take it; and no one would be the wiser or the poorer. So, while his comrade was busy at other things, he slipped out to the brookside and filled his pockets.
One o’clock came, the time of departure, and all Goblinville, including the mayor and his officers, was out to see the aëronauts off upon their long voyage. The mayor shook hands with the two and wished them God-speed and the populace gave them three hearty cheers.
Then the anchor was weighed, and they were off. Slowly and majestically the great state balloon began to ascend. But when it had risen a hundred feet, Bob, looking over the side of the car, became aware of a disturbance in the crowd beneath. He saw goblins excitedly running this way and that and a number of officers trundling a big black object on wheels across the public square.
“What’s the meaning of the rumpus, Fitz?” the lad cried to his companion. “What’s that the officers have?”