“Well, we’ve got to do some—” The boy broke off abruptly; then cried in great excitement: “Look! Look, Fitz!” “What?” screeched Fitz Mee, nervously dancing up and down. “What? Where?” “A mountain!” yelled Bob. “See it? Away to the south! A big shiny mountain!” “Yes!” moaned the goblin. “And that’s what’s drawing us!” He cast a despairing look behind them. “Why—why,” he jerked out, “Bob, the Arabs are following us!” “Oh, dear—dear!” muttered the boy. “Now we _are_ lost!” “We don’t dare to stop,” Fitz whimpered; “the Arabs’ll get us!” “And we don’t dare to go ahead,” Bob whined; “we’ll fly against the side of that mountain and burst ourselves all to pieces!” “Oh, dear!” groaned the goblin. “Oh, dear!” moaned the boy. “Bob!” “What, Fitz?” “Which would you rather—be eaten up by the Arabs, or bursted up by the mountain?” “Why, _neither_, you silly old thing!” pettishly. “We’ve got to choose, Bob.” “Well, we _haven’t!_” “What else can we do, Bob?” “I know!” brightly. “An idea has just come to me, Fitz.” “Oh! what is it, Bob?” joyfully. “You’ll see—in time. Stop the balloon.” “Bob, I _can’t_ stop it!” “That’s so. Well, pump up the tank and send the balloon to the ground.” “It’ll spill us out, Bob, at the rate we’re going.” “Let it spill!”—recklessly. “All right! Here goes!” Fitz worked industriously at the pump; and the air-ship began to drop swiftly. Soon it was within a few feet of the ground, flying along rapidly. “Hold on to the car when it strikes,” Bob cautioned his companion, “or the balloon, relieved of our weight, will fly up—and away from us.” “I understand,” Fitz replied. Bump! The car struck the earth, throwing its occupants sprawling; but they hung on. Bump! Bump! Then it dragged along the sand for some distance; and at last came to a stop. “Pump the air-tank up good and tight, Fitz,” Bob commanded; “we don’t want to lose our air-ship and be left out here in the desert.” “But the Arabs’ll get us, anyhow,” Fitz complained disconsolately. “There they come—only a few miles away!” “Let ’em come!” the boy cried gleefully. “They’ll be sorry! Let me have that hand-satchel.” “But what’re you going to _do_, Bob?” “Just wait and _see_!” was the tantalizing answer. CHAPTER IX A WIRELESS MESSAGE TO HEADQUARTERS The goblin silently handed the small black satchel to his comrade. The boy opened it and took out two of the tiny bottles, remarking as he did so: “I—I rather hate to do it; but I’ve got to—we’ve got to save ourselves.” “But what do you mean to do, Bob?” his companion insisted. “Tell me—before the Arabs get here.” The boy silently shook a few tablets into his palm from each of the two bottles. Then he queried: “Fitz, does the—the effect of these tablets—these gob-tabs—last forever? Tell me the truth.” “The effect lasts as long as the person eats goblin diet, Bob. That’s the reason I’ve insisted on your eating nothing else. See?” “Uh-huh.” “Well, now what’re you going to do?”