“Look here, Bob Taylor!” Fitz cried, vexed and desperate. “If you don’t quit calling me names, I’ll—I’ll run off and leave you.”
“All right,” the boy-giant returned placidly, “I’ll just set you down here in the road and let you run off.”
And he suited his action to his words.
“Oh, don’t, please don’t, Bob!” Fitz Mee pleaded, almost in tears. “Let me out of this cage, and take me up and go ahead. And don’t plague me any more, just because you’re so big and so strong. It isn’t like you, Bob—to be so cruel. I don’t like you as a giant; I’d rather have you as a goblin—as a boy, I mean—and I’ll be glad when you’re back in that state again.”
“Maybe I won’t be a boy or a goblin any more,” Bob remarked thoughtfully, as he released his companion and took him up in his arms; “maybe I’ll just remain a giant. I rather like being a giant; I don’t have to take pills when I’m a giant. I can eat meat and things.”
“But you can’t go in the balloon, as a giant,” Fitz Mee suggested.
“No, that’s so. Well, maybe I won’t go in it any more; maybe you don’t want me to.”
“You know I do, Bob.”
“Sure?”