“Sometimes I’m called the Little Green Goblin of Goblinville.” “Oh!” “Yes.” “But what’s your name?” “Fitz.” “Fitz?” “Yes.” “Fitz what?” “Fitz Mee.” “Fits you?” laughed Bob. “I guess it does.” “No!” rasped the goblin. “Not Fitz _Hugh_; Fitz _Mee_.” “That’s what I said,” giggled the boy, “fits you.” “I know you did; but _I_ didn’t. _I_ said Fitz _Mee_.” “I can’t see the difference,” said Bob, with a puzzled shake of the head. “Oh, you can’t!” sneered the goblin. “No, I can’t!”—bristling pugnaciously. “Huh!”—contemptuously—“I say my name is Fitz _Mee_; you say it is Fitz _Hugh_; and you can’t see the difference, hey?” “Oh, that’s what you mean—that your name is Fitz Mee,” grinned Bob. “Of course it’s what I mean,” the goblin muttered gratingly; “it’s what I said; and a goblin always says what he means and means what he says.” “Where’s your home?” the boy ventured to inquire. “In Goblinville,” was the crisp reply. “Goblinville?” “Yes; the capital of Goblinland.” “And where’s that?” “A long distance east or a long distance west.” “Well, which?” “Either or both.” “Oh, that can’t be!” Bob cried. “It can’t?” “Why, no.” “Why can’t it?” “The place can’t be east and west both—from here.” “But it can, and it is,” the goblin insisted. “Is that so?”—in profound wonder. “Yes; it’s on the opposite side of the globe.” “Oh, I see.” The goblin nodded, batting his pop eyes. “Well, what are you doing here?” Bob pursued. “Talking to you,” grinned the goblin. “I know that,” the lad grumbled irritably. “But what brought you here?” “A balloon.” “Oh, pshaw! What did you come here for?” “For you.” “For me?” “Yes; you don’t like to live in this country, and I’ve come to take you to a better one.” “To Goblinland?” “Yes.” “Is that a better country than this—for boys?” “Yes, indeed.” “In what way is it better?” Bob demanded, shrewdly. “Tell me about it.” “Well,” the goblin went on to explain, unclasping his hands and stretching his slender legs full length upon the window-sill, “in your country a boy isn’t permitted to do what pleases him, but is compelled to do what pleases others. Isn’t that so?” “Yes, it is,” the lad muttered. “But in our land,” the goblin continued, “a boy isn’t permitted to do what pleases _others_, but is compelled to do what pleases _himself_.” “Oh!” ejaculated Bob, surprised and pleased. “That’s great. I’d like to live in Goblinland.” “Of course you would,” said the goblin, placing a finger alongside of his flat nose and winking a pop eye. “Your parents and your teacher don’t know how to treat you—don’t appreciate you; they don’t understand boys. You’d better come along with me.” “I’ve a notion to,” Bob replied thoughtfully. Then, abruptly: “But how did you find out about me, that I was dissatisfied with things here?”