The goblin gave a negative shake of the head.
“No,” he replied, “it’s ’way up near the top of the bag.”
“Well, what’re we going to do, Fitz?”
“There’s nothing we can do, Bob. The feathers are escaping—one now and then; and, little by little, the balloon will lose its buoyancy and sink into the sea. We’re lost!”
“Look here, Fitz,” Bob cried sharply. “Surely you’re not going to give up that way. I didn’t think it of you. There must be something we can do to save ourselves.”
The goblin dropped his chin upon his breast and, rolling his head, muttered: “Nothing!”
“But,” the lad persisted, “we must do something. There’s a little air still left in the tank, and when we sink too low we can let that out, and rise again. If we sail as fast as we can, can’t we cross the ocean before we drop into it?”
Fitz Mee leaped to his feet like one electrified.
“Thank you, Bob—thank you!” he cried, grasping his companion’s hand. “You’ve given me hope. We’ll try your project; and if we lose, we’ll have the satisfaction of knowing we died trying!” And he set his jaws with a resolute snap.
“I can’t see where there’ll be much satisfaction in that for us—after we’re dead,” the lad muttered under his breath.