“Why—why, what’s the matter with this thing?” “What?” the boy inquired. “The needle won’t turn at all, Bob.” “It won’t?” stooping to examine. “No, it won’t. See?” “Yes. What do you suppose ails it?” “I don’t know.” “Don’t you understand your own machinery, Fitz Mee of Goblinland?” teasingly. “Yes, I do—when a certain boy from Yankeeland hasn’t meddled with it,” crossly. “Oh!” “Yes.” “You think I hurt your old machine?” “I _know_ you did—in some way.” “Fitz Mee, I wish I’d left you in the hands of the Portuguese.” “No, you don’t.” “I _do_!” “Now, Bob!” “Well, what did you say I spoiled the selector for?” “I didn’t mean you did it on purpose, Bob.” “Didn’t you?” “No; I just meant you did it by accident. It’s a very delicate instrument, you know.” “Oh!” “Yes. Well, it’s done and can’t be helped. It appears that I’ve set the indicator west instead of east, so west we must go. It’ll be a longer journey, but who cares! We’ll sail right back across America and over the Pacific. I’ll open her up and let her fly.” He gave a turn or two to the thumb-screw; and the balloon shot forward—at the speed of a comet, almost. The two aëronauts dropped flat upon the floor of the car and remained silent, for the uproar occasioned by their rapid passage through the air prevented conversation. Soon, however, the mercurial boy grew restless; and he cautiously drew himself up across the locker and peeped over the edge of the basket. The goblin caught his venturesome companion by the heels and attempted to draw him back; but Bob wriggled and gesticulated, pointing downward over the rim of the basket, and finally grabbed Fitz by the arm and pulled him up on to the locker. The goblin took one peep; then rolled to the bottom of the car, and tightened the thumb-screw and gradually brought the balloon to a standstill. “We’re over the land again,” Bob gasped. “Yes,” panted Fitz Mee, climbing to his comrade’s side. “Well, what does it mean? We haven’t reached America already, have we?” The goblin shook his head, frowning in a puzzled way. “Well, where are we, then?” “I don’t know.” “Fitz, we’re lost.” “I guess we are, Bob.” The boy took up the binocular and looked all around. “Why!” he exclaimed. “There’s a city ’way back yonder on the coast, an odd-looking city like the pictures in my geography; and there’s nothing out there ahead of us but sand—sand—sand, as far as I can see.” “Huh!” snorted Fitz Mee. Then he rolled to the floor of the car, laughing immoderately and holding his sides and kicking up his heels. “Look here!” the boy cried angrily. “What’s the matter with you, old Convulsions? What’s so funny, I’d like to know?”