The gooseherd and his flock drew near. He was a tall, angular young man, ragged and barefoot. His merry whistle rose above the strident quacks of his charges, and his flat feet softly spatted the dust of the highway in time to his own music.
Fitz Mee stepped forward, politely lifted his cap and said in greeting:
“Good morning, Sir Gooseherd.”
The young man stopped in his tracks and dropped his crook and his jaw at the same time. Plainly he was startled at the sudden appearance of the little green sprite and his companion, and just as plainly he was greatly frightened.
“We desire to purchase your geese,” the goblin ventured, boldly advancing. “How much gold will buy them?”
The gooseherd let out a shrill yell of terror and turned and fled up the road as fast as his long legs could carry him. The geese attempted to flee also, but, being tethered together, became hopelessly and helplessly entangled and fell to the ground, a flapping, quacking mass.
Bob and Fitz laughed heartily.
“Hurrah!” the goblin whooped. “The geese and cord are ours, anyhow.”
“But we didn’t pay the fellow,” Bob objected.