For an hour or two they sailed along steadily, covering mile after mile of aërial space with the swiftness of an arrow. At last, however, Bob remarked:
“Fitz, it appears to me we’re closer to the ocean than we were a while back; we must be descending. I wonder if the rain wet the feathers in the bag.”
“No,” the goblin replied positively. “They can’t get wet. They, and the bag, too, for that matter, have been treated with goose oil; and they won’t wet.”
“Won’t wet?”
“No. You know a goose’s feathers never get wet, no matter how much it goes in the water. We raise thousands of geese in Goblinland just for the feathers and the oil to treat them and our balloon bags with. We can’t be descending, Bob.”
But he stepped to the side of the car and cast his eyes upward. Then suddenly he started and collapsed upon the seat, white and trembling.
“What is it, what’s the matter, Fitz?” the lad questioned falteringly, fearing what the answer would be.
“Bob,” his companion muttered hoarsely, “we are descending! We’re lost—we’ll be drowned in the ocean! There’s a rip in the bag and the feathers are escaping one by one!”