“There’s very little we _can_ do—if that’s what’s the matter with our machine. It seems to be all right now; but you must remember we’re on the ground, with other mountains between us and the magnetic peak—breaking its power, as it were. Probably when we’re high in the air again, we’ll encounter the old difficulty.” “Then we’d better sail as close to the earth as we can, Fitz, till we’re beyond the influence of that strange mountain.” “That’s a good idea, Bob; I’d already thought of it. And, as the sun’s almost down and we’ll need to see our way when travelling close to the ground, I think we’d better spend the night here, don’t you?” “Yes. But—but say, Fitz!” “What?” “If you need to send a wireless phone message to Goblinland, how do you do it?” Fitz Mee silently drew from his pocket a small shiny metallic box, and opened it. It contained a tiny telephone instrument, perfect in every detail—speaking-tube, receiver and all. “My!” the boy exclaimed in admiration and wonder. “Isn’t it pretty and isn’t it little! But how do you use it, Fitz?” “Just like you use any telephone,” the goblin replied complacently. “Do you take down that teenty-weenty little receiver and call up central in Goblinland?” “Yes.” “And central gives you whatever number you want?” The goblin nodded. “Say!” the boy cried excitedly. “Call up some one right now, Fitz.” The goblin shook his head. “Yes,” Bob insisted; “I want to see how it works.” “I don’t dare to.” “Don’t _dare_ to?” “No.” “Why?” “There’s a law against using the instrument, except for messages of grave importance.” “Oh!” “Uh-huh.” Fitz Mee closed the little box and returned it to his pocket; Bob resumed the munching of his ripe fruit. “Won’t you have some, Fitz?” he suggested, temptingly displaying it to the goblin’s gaze. “Uk-uh!” Fitz grunted. “Better try some; it’s fine.” “It would make me sick.” “Pshaw!”—incredulously, contemptuously. “I’m afraid it would; I’m afraid it will make _you_ sick.” “Me?” “Yes.” “Huh! Fruit never makes _me_ sick; I can eat bushels of it.” “You mean you _could_.” “What?” “You could—when you were a boy.” “Well?” “Well, you’re part goblin now.” “Well, I’m _not_!” “You’ll see, Bob.” “Well, I _will_ see; I’ll eat this fruit and prove to you, Fitzy, that I’m just a healthy boy.” “All right,” the goblin grinned. Bob finished his fruit—to the last date. Then he went to the great spring near at hand, and lay down and drank his fill. He set out to return to his comrade; but suddenly he became so ill that he dropped upon the ground and rolled and writhed and groaned. Fitz came flying to him. “Here, Bob,” he said quietly, “take this,” offering the wriggling boy a tablet. “Oh! pills! pills! pills!” Bob moaned. But he took the tablet and downed it; and soon he was relieved of the fruit—and his pain. Sheepishly he got on his feet and sauntered back to the balloon, crestfallen and subdued. All Fitz Mee said to him was: