Presently a thud announced that Hawkins had dropped the cylinder. Then
he pulled another lever, and the process was repeated.

As the second cylinder dropped, we rose nearly a foot into the air. Still
we maintained a forward motion, and that was puzzling.

"How is it, Hawkins," I quavered, "that we're still going ahead when we
don't touch the ground more than once in a hundred feet?"

"That's the propeller," chuckled the inventor. "I put a propeller at the
back, so that the auto is almost a dirigible balloon. Oh, there's nothing
lacking about the Hawkins Auto-aero-mobile, Griggs, I can tell you."

When I had recovered from the first nervous shock, the contrivance really
did not seem so dangerous.

We traveled in long, low leaps, the machine rarely rising more than a
foot from the ground, and the motion was certainly unique and rather
pleasant.

Nevertheless, I have a haunting fear of anything invented by Hawkins, and
my mind would insist upon wandering to thoughts of home.

"Not going down-town, are you, Hawkins?" I asked with what carelessness I
could assume.

"Just for a minute. I want some cigars."

"Hawkins," I murmured, "you are a pretty heavy man. When you get out