“Well, what is it?” Bob demanded, dodging the sharp clap of thunder almost immediately following the lightning. “A sponge tablet.” “What’s it for?” “It’s to absorb some of the water you’ve taken, and to swell and fill your stomach.” “I don’t want it—I don’t need it,” Bob said, decidedly shaking his head. “All right,” Fitz laughed, “you don’t have to take it. We just make ’em for folks who aren’t satisfied unless their stomachs are full all the time. Now I’ll eat my breakfast.” He hastily selected and swallowed a number of tablets and pellets; then he closed the leather case with a bang and a snap and thrust it into the locker. “Now,” he smiled, “I guess we’re all ready to play tag with that tempest. And we’ll show it a thing or two—oh, _won’t_ we!” “Maybe it’ll show us a thing or two,” Bob replied, grinning a sickly grin and shaking his head dubiously. “It’s getting pretty close and I don’t like the looks of it. My! Just see those clouds rolling and whirling! Fitz, I believe it’s a cyclone!” “No, it isn’t,” his companion muttered contemptuously; “it’s nothing but a summer thunder gust.” By this time the storm was close upon them, coming swiftly. The lightning was forking and flashing incessantly; the thunder was crackling and crashing continuously. Bob gazed at the rolling, tumbling masses of black clouds, at the play of electricity, and the forest and fruit trees bending before the blast, and shivered; he listened to the mingled, indescribable uproar of booming thunder and bellowing wind, and shuddered. “Oh, let’s be off, Fitz!” he pleaded. “We’re off!” his comrade cried, giving a half turn to the thumb-screw of the selector. Before the raging storm they sped, the boy frightened and miserable, the goblin elated and jubilant. Rapidly they approached the ocean, and soon they were sailing over a city on the shore. Binocular in hand, Bob watched the storm behind and the earth beneath, and trembled. He saw people rushing to shelter; saw fences and groves leveled, and skyscrapers and steeples sent crashing to earth. “Oh, Fitz—Fitz!” the lad groaned. “It _is_ a cyclone!” “I guess it is,” the goblin answered nonchalantly. “And it’s coming closer!” the boy cried in terror. “Let’s go faster!” “Oh, this is all right; this is fine sport,” the goblin laughed, capering about the car and gleefully rubbing his hands. Out over the ocean they flew—out of sight of land—out over the boundless expanse of heaving, tossing waters. After them raced the storm, each minute drawing a little nearer and a little nearer. It was almost upon them! “Please, please let’s go faster, Fitz!” Bob screeched, dancing up and down in an ecstacy of keen affright. [Illustration]