of this budding airship, it won't soar into the heavens with me, will it?"

"It would if I got out," said the inventor, with pleasant assurance. "But
I'm not going to get out. We'll let the cigar man bring the stuff to us."

So it would rise if any weight left the car! That was food for thought.

Suppose Hawkins, who operated the auto according to the magazine pictures
of racing chauffeurs, leaning far forward, should topple into the road?
Suppose a stray breeze should tilt the machine and throw out some part?

Up without doubt, we should go, and there seemed to be quite an open
space up above, through which we might travel indefinitely without
hitting anything that would stay our celestial journey.

"How do you let the gas out of the balloon, Hawkins?" I ventured
presently.

"Oh, the cock's down underneath the machine," said that gentleman briefly.
"Don't worry, Griggs. I'm here."

That, in a nutshell, was just what was worrying me, but there seemed to
be nothing more to say. I relapsed into silence.

We rolled or floated or bounced, or whatever you may choose to call it,
into town without accident or incident. People stared considerably at
the kangaroo antics of our car, and one or two horses, after their first
glance, developed _furor transitorius_ on the spot; but Hawkins managed
to pull up before his cigar store, which was in the outskirts of the
town, without kicking up any very serious disturbance.