all details of his machine--whatever it might be--I breathed more easily.

Some of these days one of Hawkins' inventions is going to take him on a
personally conducted tour to a quiet little grave, and I have no wish to
learn the itinerary beforehand.

Now, bitter experience has taught me that eternal vigilance is the price
of freedom from complicity with the mechanical contrivances of Hawkins,
and I should have been suspicious. Yet when Hawkins appeared Sunday
morning and asked me to go for a little jaunt up the Hudson in his launch,
I accepted with guileless good faith.

His launch was--perhaps it is still--the neatest of neat little pleasure
boats, and when we left the house I anticipated several hours of keen
enjoyment.

Crossing Riverside Drive, it struck me that Hawkins was hurrying, but the
balmy air, the sunshine, and the beautiful sweep of the river filled my
mind with infinite peace, and it was not until we had descended to the
little dock that I smelled anything suggestive of rat.

Hawkins climbed into the launch, and I smiled benignly on him as I handed
down the lunch and our overcoats. I had just finished passing them over
when I stopped smiling so suddenly that it jarred my facial muscles.

"Where has the engine gone?" I demanded.

"That engine, Griggs," responded Hawkins, pleasantly, "has gone where all
other steam engines will go within the next two years--into the scrap
heap."