“Well, what do you think you need this morning? You can have whatever you require.”
“What do I think I need?” Bob tittered. “What a question! I need breakfast, of course, Fitz.”
“Of course,” snapped the goblin. “But do you need muscle food, or nerve food, or fat food, or what?”
“I—I don’t know,” stammered the boy, scratching his head in perplexity. “I never heard of such things, I guess. I know what I’d like, though; I’d like steak and gravy and hot biscuits, and some fruit and a glass of milk.”
“Huh!” the goblin snorted in supreme contempt. “You’ll find, Bob, we don’t indulge in such indigestible truck in Goblinland. Our foods are scientifically prepared, not slapped together haphazard. We use nothing but the concentrated extracts—the active principals of food stuffs. I’ll show you.”
He went to the locker and brought forth a small leather hand-case or satchel.
“Why—why,” Bob muttered, his eyes bulging, “that looks just like papa’s medicine-case!”
“Well, it isn’t,” Fitz Mee grunted irritably; “it’s my portable pantry.”
And he loosened the catch and flung the case open, displaying several rows of tiny bottles containing tablets and pellets of various shapes, sizes and colors.