Bob and Fitz lashed their balloon upon the back of one of the giant camels, and mounted and set out toward the north. All that day they traveled and far into the night, the great desert animals covering the ground rapidly. At last they stopped at an oasis; and there rested until morning. Then they tested the selector of the balloon and, to their unbounded delight, found it in perfect working order. They had got beyond the influence of the magnetic mountain. “Now,” said Bob, “we’ll take some gob-tabs and give some to the camels; then we’ll be all ready to take to the air again.” They carried out the plan thus expressed. When they were once more ready to embark upon the tenuous tide of the air, Fitz Mee remarked: “Now, I’ll telephone to Goblinland that we’re coming, that we’ll arrive there to-morrow.” He drew forth his wireless telephone, rang the tiny bell, and waited. Bob stood at his comrade’s side, alertly observant. Presently he saw the goblin give a start and heard him saying: “Hello! Hello! Is this Goblinland? It is, you say? All right. This is Fitz Mee. Yes, Fitz Mee. _Yes_, the Little Green Goblin. Uh-huh. Well, give me the mayor’s office. Yes—_yes_! the mayor’s office.” There was a momentary pause; and then: “Hello! Is this the mayor’s office in Goblinland? What? Huh? Is this the mayor’s office in Goblinland, I say? You can’t hear me? Well, I can’t hear _you_. I want to know if this is the mayor’s office in Goblinland. You say it is? Huh? Oh! All right. Well, is the mayor there? How’s that? Well, I want to speak to him, please.” Another momentary pause; and then: “Hello! _Hel_-lo, Hel-_lo_! Is this his honor, the mayor of Goblinland? It is? How’s that? It _isn’t_? How’s that? What? Huh?” Bob began to snicker. “Oh! All right. Well, mayor, this is Fitz Mee. Fitz Mee, I say. No—_no_! Fitz Mee. _No!_ Not _Swiss cheese!_”—Bob laughed outright; and the goblin scowled darkly. “F-i-t-z M-e-e, Fitz Mee. Oh! You understand now, do you? Well, I’ve got the boy. Yes. Why, I’ve been delayed by storms and misadventures. Yes. Yes, bad storms. We’ll get in to-morrow morning, I think. Hey? I—I know; but I hope your honor will pardon—what? Well, mayor, you don’t know what an awful time I’ve had with this boy.” Bob rolled upon the ground and roared. “Well, I’m very sorry. You’ll _what_—your honor? Please don’t say _that_! Oh! _don’t_ say that!” The goblin’s face had gone white, Bob observed; and the boy wondered what was the matter. “Yes, to—morrow morning. Good-bye.” Fitz Mee rang off, returned the instrument to his pocket, and dropped upon the ground, pale and panting. “What is it, what’s the matter, Fitz?” Bob inquired kindly. The goblin drew his knees up to his chin and rolled his pop eyes and waggled his big head; but made no answer. “What is it?” the boy repeated. Fitz moaned, but made no other reply. “Tell me,” Bob insisted. The goblin shook his head. “I don’t dare to, Bob,” he said. “Why don’t you?” “I just don’t—that’s all.”