“All right, and if we wished to go higher—”
“We’d have to let out more of the compressed air,” Bob interrupted, brightly.
“And if we desired to descend—”
“We’d have to pump more into the tank.”
“Of course,” mumbled the goblin. “You’ll make a great aëronaut one of these days.”
Then he lifted a lid of the locker, took out a small instrument and busied himself with the manipulation of its mechanism. Bob leaned over the edge of the car and devoted his attention to the scene below.
Directly beneath lay the sleeping village, its roofs showing white in the bright moonlight. To east and west the hills rolled away, their summits hoary, their bases shadowy and obscure; and among them wound the placid river—a stream of molten silver threading the narrow vale. The roar of the distant mill-dam sounded sullen and indistinct, and the mists rising from it waved as fairy plumes and banners. The lad looked and listened, entranced, enraptured.
“How beautiful it all is!” he murmured feelingly to himself, a catch in his voice. “I—I like it; and I rather hate to leave it.”