And with a terrible downward clutch, the Goblin caught hold of McNason by the coat-collar.
“Mercy——mercy!” cried the wretched man—“Help!—Help!”
“Help!—help!” shouted the Goblin, derisively—“One Timothy Two! Come along, McNason! Come along!”
Catching up Josiah as easily as though he were a wooden mannikin, the Goblin unfurled a pair of bat-like wings and rose aloft in air.
“Here we go!” it yelled—“Up we go, and down we go! Off to Church! Me and the Churchwarden! Oh, hoo-roo, hoo-roo! Christmas Day and Christmas Bells, and a jolly Christmas altogether! One Timothy Two! Off we go!”
And with the rush and roar of the wind, the Goblin carrying the world-renowned millionaire as a bird of prey might carry a rabbit or a weasel, soared out on a wave of mingled sleet and snow into the stormy night!
What happened to him in that wild supernatural scurry through the air Josiah McNason never knew. He lived and was conscious,—conscious of being borne along at a furious rate not knowing whither,—conscious of the freezing cold,—the rain, the wind, that tossed him and his unearthly companion about like dead leaves on its angry breath with a “Hoo-roo!” louder than the cry peculiar to the Goblin itself,—conscious above all of the bells! O the Bells! How they trilled and trolled out their Christmas melody!—how they seemed to tumble one over the other in their haste to proclaim “Peace and Goodwill!”—how their metal throats palpitated and throbbed with the angelic message!—angelic still,—angelic always!—even though some mortals nowadays are so miserably-minded as to doubt its truth and sweetness! The Bells rang everywhere!—loudly to the scudding clouds,—softly to the darkened earth,—whisperingly among the chill showers of sleet and snow, and with an echoing clang like musical thunder above and around the shadowy drifting form of the Goblin as it flew along, gripping the quivering Josiah as a cat might grip a mouse, or an eagle a new-born lamb. All at once the rattle and rush of the warring elements rolled off in a pause of quietude, letting the Bells have it all their own way,—and—suddenly descending with lightning-like rapidity by sheer force of the Goblin’s imperative downward pressure, Josiah found himself standing on his feet in the middle of a vast building which looked like a Church, though there was no sacred emblem of religion to be seen anywhere in it save the Pulpit. The Pulpit stood out with singular obtrusiveness, for it was green,—a livid, wicked green like the glare of a serpent’s eye. Panels of white appeared to be inserted round it, but these could not be plainly discerned, at once. The green hue was its chief note of attraction, and McNason’s eyes fastened themselves upon this with a pertinacity surely inspired by some other influence than his own. Breathless, shivering and exhausted as he was, there was something about that Green Pulpit which, wholly against his will, compelled his attention,—and as he looked, he heard a sudden confused murmur of voices which, beginning softly at first, grew louder and louder till it rose into a perfect pandemonium of howling! The unhappy millionaire trembled. What new and nameless horror was there yet in store for him? Involuntarily he turned to look for the Goblin,—even that uncanny Presence seemed kinder and more friendly than such a dreadful uproar of unknown tongues! And he was actually glad to see it still standing beside him, its round eyes sparkling with a strange light of mingled mirth and malice.
“Well, McNason, how do you feel after your airship voyage?” it inquired—“A bit air-sick?”
Here the howling voices grew fiercer and more shrill,—and yet the alarmed Josiah could see nothing. He felt desperately inclined to take hold of the Goblin’s claw for protection.