general, but I do know something about the plans, and from what I can
judge by the plans, if any workman was fool-hardy enough to enter the
room with Hawkins' loom in action, that intricate bit of mechanism would
reach out for him, drag him in, macerate him, and weave him into the
cloth, all in about thirty seconds.

But an explanation of this to Hawkins would merely have precipitated
another conflict. I chose what seemed to be the lesser evil; I elected
to examine the pumpless pump.

"All right," said the inventor happily. "Come along, Griggs. You're the
only one that knows anything about this. In a week or two, when somebody
writes it up in the _Scientific American_, you'll feel mighty proud of
having heard my first explanation of the thing."

The pump was just as Hawkins had described--a thin steel ladder coming
out of the well's black mouth, running up to and over the shaft, and
descending into the blackness again. When we reached its side, it was
stationary, for the air was still.

"There!" cried Hawkins. "All it needs is the buckets and the tank on top.
That idea comes pretty near to actual execution, Griggs, doesn't it?"

"Most of your ideas do come pretty near to actual execution, Hawkins," I
sighed.

That passed over Hawkins' head.

"Now, look down here," he continued, leaning over the well with a calm
disregard of the frailty of the human make-up, and grasping one of the