He wrung his hands and wept. At last, however, he muttered sleepily: “Poor unlucky old Fitz! He’s always getting into trouble and danger; he’s always tumbling out of the balloon. I’ve rescued him two or three times; but I can’t go on rescuing him every few hours. He’ll have to look out for himself this time; I can’t do anything for him. And,”—yawning,—“I’m so—so sleepy. I’ve just got to—sleep; that’s all—all—there is—” He sank upon the bottom of the car and lost all sense of his surroundings. “Bob! Oh, Bob!” Someone was calling him—someone in the far distance, he thought. “Huh!” ever so drowsily. “Bob! Bob Taylor! Wake up!” “Hel—hello!” the boy grunted. “Here! Wake up, you lazy pest! Do you hear me? Ah-hah! Do you _feel_ me?” “Ouch!”—petulantly—“Quit! Quit, I say!” Someone was twitching and pinching the lad’s ear. He stirred, opened his eyes, flounced over upon his stomach and raised his head. There stood the Little Green Goblin of Goblinville, grinning down at him. “Fitz!” the boy cried, springing to his feet and holding out his hand. “Fitz Mee!” The goblin continued to grin and bat his pop eyes—saucily, perversely. Daylight was just breaking. “When—when did you get back?” Bob inquired, embarrassed by his comrade’s manner. “Just got back, my friend,” Fitz croaked hoarsely; “and a time I’ve had getting you awake. I called and called from the ground, but you slept on. So I had to climb the tree; and then yell at you—and yell again and again, and shake you, and pinch you. You must have been greatly worried over my disappearance and danger! Oh, yes! Sure! You couldn’t sleep at all, you were so worried!” “Fitz, I _was_ worried,” the boy replied sheepishly. “Of course!” the goblin sneered. “That’s what I _said_—you were so worried you couldn’t _sleep_!” “You may say what you please,” Bob insisted, “but I was worried—worried like everything. I thought I’d never see you again.” “And no doubt you searched for me, seeking to rescue me from my perilous position!” Fitz continued sarcastically. “Why, to be sure you did! Oh, my!—yes, indeed!” “No, I didn’t hunt for you,” Bob returned thickly, a hint of tears in his voice. “You didn’t?” snappishly. “No.” “Well, _why_ didn’t you—huh?” “How could I, Fitz, with wild beasts all around me?” [Illustration] “Well,”—crustily,—“maybe there wasn’t wild beasts all around me! Hey, Bob Taylor!” “You’re unreasonable, Fitz!” angry now. “Of course, you were in danger. But what would have been the use of my rushing into danger when I couldn’t help you a bit by doing it? I couldn’t whip all those wild animals and snatch you away from them. Now, could I?” “No, I suppose you couldn’t,”—sullenly and rather reluctantly admitting the truth. “But it did make me _mad_, Bob, to find you sleeping so comfortably and soundly after the terrible time I’ve had.” “Did you have a bad time, Fitz?” “Did I? Well, I rather _guess_ I did!” “How far did the lion carry you?” “About a hundred miles.”