“My!” Bob exclaimed, the glass to his eyes. “I guess I _do_ see it! It’s a black one, too; and it’s moving this way. How soon will it overtake us?” This question he asked in some trepidation. “It won’t overtake us at all, unless we care to have it do so,” the goblin made answer. “Why, can we outrun it?” “Yes.” “Sure?” “Sure, if we want to.” “Well, we’ll want to, won’t we?” “It’ll be fun to wait till it’s nearly upon us and then run away from it, I think. Don’t you?” “I—I don’t know,” Bob returned, dubiously shaking his head, his gaze still riveted upon the rising storm; “it _might_ not be fun.” “You’re afraid,” sneered the goblin. “No, I’m—I’m not.” “Yes, you are; you’re a coward.” “Don’t you call me that!” the lad cried, snatching the binocular from his eyes and angrily turning upon his Companion. “I won’t,” the goblin promised. “Now turn your glass toward the east. What do you see?” “I see the sea!” Bob cried rapturously. “It’s plain to me as plain can be— In fact, I see you see the sea,” hummed Fitz Mee in sing-song. Then he continued: “If you’ll take a glance at the ground beneath us, you’ll notice we’re moving very slowly. I’m loitering—waiting for the storm to catch up with us; then we’ll have a race with it, out across the ocean. In the meantime we’ll have breakfast.” [Illustration] “Breakfast?” Bob questioned. “Where’s breakfast coming from?” “From the locker,” smiled the goblin, rubbing his round little belly and smacking his lips in anticipatory gusto, “where everything else we need’ll come from. I always keep my air-ship stored for a long voyage, for when I leave Goblinland on business, I never know when I’ll get back home again. Are you hungry?” “You bet!” was the lad’s expressive but inelegant rejoinder. “Well, what do you think you need this morning? You can have whatever you require.” “What do I think I need?” Bob tittered. “What a question! I need breakfast, of course, Fitz.” “Of course,” snapped the goblin. “But do you need muscle food, or nerve food, or fat food, or what?” “I—I don’t know,” stammered the boy, scratching his head in perplexity. “I never heard of such things, I guess. I know what I’d _like_, though; I’d like steak and gravy and hot biscuits, and some fruit and a glass of milk.” “Huh!” the goblin snorted in supreme contempt. “You’ll find, Bob, we don’t indulge in such indigestible truck in Goblinland. Our foods are scientifically prepared, not slapped together haphazard. We use nothing but the concentrated extracts—the active principals of food stuffs. I’ll show you.” He went to the locker and brought forth a small leather hand-case or satchel. “Why—why,” Bob muttered, his eyes bulging, “that looks just like papa’s medicine-case!” “Well, it isn’t,” Fitz Mee grunted irritably; “it’s my portable pantry.” And he loosened the catch and flung the case open, displaying several rows of tiny bottles containing tablets and pellets of various shapes, sizes and colors.