“Why,” Fitz gasped, taking a hurried look beneath, “the officers are running out the dynamite gun!”
“And they’re training it upon our balloon—upon us!” Bob whispered hoarsely, his soul a prey to guilty fear. “What—what can it mean, Fitz?”
Then arose the voice of the mayor, bellowing:
“Fitz Mee, descend! Come back! That boy can’t leave Goblinland with his pockets full of gold! He has deceived us; he can’t leave Goblinland at all. Come down; or we’ll send a dynamite shell through the balloon-bag, and bring you down in a hurry.”
Fitz gave a few strokes to the pump, and the big balloon came to a stop. Bob sat silent, speechless at the dread result of his rash act.
“You’ve played the mischief—you have, Bob Taylor!” his companion snarled angrily, reproachfully. “And you’ll spend the balance of your days in Goblinland—that’s what!”
“Oh, dear!” the boy found voice to moan. “Oh, dear!”
“Hello!” Fitz called over the side of the car. “Hello, your honor!”
“Hello!” answered the mayor.
“If I’ll make the boy throw the gold down to you, will that satisfy you?”