“You don’t call this gentle speed going fast, do you, Bob?” Fitz returned, grinning broadly.
“Indeed I do,” the boy replied earnestly.
“Oh, we’re just loafing along!” the goblin chuckled. “I’ll show you how I travel when I’m in a hurry to get along. Take off your cap, or you’ll lose it, and hold on to the car. Now!”
With the last word he gave another turn to the thumb-screw of the selector. The balloon leaped forward like a mad thing of life; the fragile car strained and quivered. Bob clutched the seat with both hands and held on for dear life. The air appeared to rush past in a cutting, shrieking tempest of wrath, that blinded and deafened the boy. He tried to scream out, but could not. He felt his grip upon the seat weakening, and, fearing he might be swept overboard, he loosened his hold and threw himself to the bottom of the car. There he lay, panting and gasping—sick with mortal terror. Then, of a sudden, the mad speed of the balloon began to slacken and the boy gradually gathered up courage to open his eyes and look around.
There sat the impish Fitz Mee by the selector, his hand upon the thumb-screw.
“Hello!” the goblin grinned apishly.
“Hello!” the boy muttered in reply.
“How did you like it?” queried the goblin.
“I didn’t like it,” answered the lad.