Mr Hawkins Humorous Adventures | Page 8

tousled and happy, sniffing the
crisp air, and he had seen the approaching boat.
"Got it ready?" he inquired, placidly.
"Got what ready?"
"Why, the message," exclaimed Hawkins, opening his eyes in
astonishment. "We'll have to hustle with it, I reckon."
"Hawkins, what new idiocy is this?" I gasped.
"Surely we're going to give that steamer a few lines to tell the world
about our trip?"
Seconds passed, before the full, terrible significance of his words
filtered into my brain.
"Do you mean to say," I roared, "that you are not going to swim for that
boat?"
"Certainly I do mean to say it," he replied stiffly. "Let me have your
fountain pen, Griggs."
I took one glance at the boat. I took another at Hawkins. Then I gripped
him about the waist and threw my whole soul into the task of pitching
him overboard.
Hawkins, as I have said, is heavier than I. He puffed and strained and
pulled and hauled at me, swearing like a trooper the while. And neither

of us budged an inch.
The cutter came nearer, nearer, always nearer. Thirty seconds more and
we should shoot by it forever. The thought of losing this chance of
rescue almost maddened me.
I had just gathered all my strength for one last heave when the middle
of my back experienced the most excruciating pain it has ever known.
Something seemed to lift me clear of the launch, with Hawkins in my
arms; I heard a dull report from somewhere, and then we dropped
together, right through the surface of the sparkling Atlantic Ocean!
Hawkins was picked up first. When I came to the surface, two
dark-skinned sailormen were dragging him in, struggling and cursing
and pointing wildly toward the horizon, where his launch was careering
away with the speed of the wind.
It was the French liner La France which had the honor of our rescue.
She deposited us in New York on Wednesday morning.
Over the rest of this tale hover some painful memories. I am not a
fighting man, but I am free to say that when my wife and Mrs. Hawkins
delivered to me their joint opinion on broken promises, their sex alone
saved them from personal damage.
It was upon me that the blame appeared to rest entirely. At least,
Hawkins didn't come in for any of it at the time.
Just at the moment of that emotional interview, Hawkins was busy in
his work-shop--perfecting something.
It seems that the motor, after all, was our salvation. Hawkins says that
some of the power must have dribbled out of the machine proper and
blown the steel dome from its foundations.
Assuredly there was plenty of energy behind the thing when it struck
me; I have darting pains in that portion of my anatomy every damp day.

The launch has never been reported, which is probably quite as well.
Perhaps it has reached the open Polar Sea, and is butting itself into
flinders against the ice-cakes. Perhaps it is terrorizing some cannibal
tribe in the southern oceans by inflicting dents on the shoreline of their
island.
Wherever the poor little boat may be, it contains eleven of my best
cigars, the better part of a substantial meal, and, what is in my eyes of
less importance, the sole existing example of what Hawkins still
considers an ideal generator of power.

CHAPTER III.
We were sitting on my porch, smoking placidly in the sunset glow,
when Hawkins aroused himself from a momentary reverie and
remarked:
"Now, if the body were made of aluminum it would be far lighter and
just as strong, wouldn't it?"
"Probably, Hawkins," I replied, "but it would also be decidedly stiff
and inconvenient. Just imagine how one's aluminium knees would
crackle and bend going up and down-stairs, and what an awful job one
would have conforming one's aluminum spinal column to the back of a
chair."
"No, no, no, no," cried Hawkins, impatiently. "I don't mean the human
body, Griggs; I----"
"I'm glad to hear it," I said. "Don't you go to inventing an aluminum
man, Hawkins. Good, old-fashioned flesh and bones have been giving
thorough satisfaction for the past few thousand years, and it would be
wiser for you to turn your peculiar talents toward----"
"There! there! That will do!" snapped the inventor, standing stiffly
erect and throwing away his cigar. "This is not the first time that that

mistaken humor of yours has prevented your absorbing new ideas,
Griggs. Incidentally, I may mention that I was referring to the body of
an automobile. Good-evening!"
Whereupon Hawkins stalked up the road in the direction of his summer
home, and I wondered for a minute if his words might not be prophetic
of future trouble.
Now, where any aspersion is cast upon his inventive