Widgin stomped up the stairs to the loft to change his clothes, which were covered in mud. He had slipped under a fence to introduce himself to a few goats, and heard somebody scream, “Danger! Troll!”

Goats and trolls have been enemies ever since a troll threatened a family of goats crossing a bridge. When the biggest Billy goat in the pasture heard ‘troll’, he charged poor Widgin, throwing him high into the air, over the fence and into a mud puddle. Widgin never had a chance to say he was a brownie and wouldn’t hurt an earthworm.

Opening the tiny satchel he’d packed when he left home, Widgin changed into clean clothes. He’d met the two mischief-makers who screamed that he was a troll. Though they’d told the barn animals they were brownies, their hairy ears and silly pranks gave them away. They were hobgoblins, not brownies, and had overstayed their welcome with their naughty behavior. Widgin paced back and forth, trying to think of a way to entice them to live somewhere else.

The hobgoblins came bounding up the stairs.

“It’s Mudpie Guy!”

“I’m Widgin,” said Widgin sternly. He was two hundred years older than the hobgoblins and age gave him a few advantages. “What are your names?”

“I’m Patch,” said the taller one.

“And, I’m Pitch. We’re brothers.” They started to wrestle, rolling over Widgin’s satchel, thumping loudly on the floor.

“Be quiet!” mooed one of the cows. “We’re trying to sleep!”

“Quiet down and I’ll tell you a story, “ Widgin said. They sat nicely for a few minutes, but as soon as he mentioned a talking frog, they laughed so loud, the barn shook. The farmer’s collie started barking and soon, the farmer arrived, all the lights switched on and everyone was wide-awake. The excitment energized the hobgoblins and they zoomed back and forth, swinging on a rope that hung from the ceiling, making a ruckus.

Widgin held his head and wondered what to do. They weren’t really mean-spirited, just full of energy. A barn with animals trying to sleep was not a place for hobgoblins. But what was? He snuggled in his corner and tried to think as they continued to frolic. When they finally slept, it wasn’t for more than 20 minutes. They didn’t have much to do and it occurred to Widgin that they might be better behaved if they weren’t bored.

Widgin thought of places that were open 24 hours a day, every day of the week. Convenience stores. No. He could imagine them toppling stacks of candy and squishing the bread.

Police station? Not a good idea. Diner? Many restaurants stayed open all night. They could help with the dishes, or lighten the mood. Though Widgin was sure most people couldn’t see hobgoblins, their high spirits energized a room. Widgin sighed. If they were bored, though, they’d put sugar in the saltshakers and sour the cream.

Then, Widgin thought of the perfect place. There was activity 24 hours a day. The hobgoblins would have plenty to do and the job was so important, Widgin thought they’d limit their pranks.

In the morning, Widgin asked the hobgoblins whether they liked living in the barn.

“It’s boring,” said Pitch.

“I bet you’d like a place where there’s a pole in the middle of the building to slide down.”

“Cool!”

“When people have to leave fast, they slide down the pole. When they aren’t using it, you two could play on it.” Widgin told them about firemen, red fire trucks, sirens, and all the equipment that needed to be cared for. “The ropes need special knots and I know you guys are good at knot-making.”

“Do you think we could ride in the truck?”

“If you were helpful, I think you could,” said Widgin sternly. “If you interfered with the firemens’ work, you wouldn’t be welcome.”

Patch and Pitch jumped up and down. “Let’s go! Take us there!”

Widgin shook his head. “This is serious, important work. I’m not sure you two are responsible enough. Sorry I mentioned it.” He packed his satchel to leave.