"I was thinking that it might be safer, if slightly less comfortable, to
wait here until Patrick gets back. He could put up a ladder--a real,
old-fashioned, wooden ladder--for us."

"Yes, and when Patrick gets back those women will get back with him,"
replied Hawkins heatedly. "Your wife's coming over here to tea."

"Well?"

"Well, do you suppose I'm going to be found stuck up here like a
confounded rooster on a weather vane?" shouted the inventor. "No,
sir! You can stay and look all the fool you like. I won't. I'm going
down now!"

Hawkins reached gingerly with one foot for a place on the ladder. I
looked at him, wondered whether it would be really wicked to hurl him
into space, and looked away again, in the direction of the woods.

My gaze traveled about a mile; and my nerves received another shock.

"See here, Hawkins!" I cried.

"Well, what do you want?" demanded the inventor gruffly, still striving
for a footing.

"What will happen if a breeze hits this infernal machine now?"

"You'll be knocked into Kingdom Come, for one thing," snapped Hawkins
with apparent satisfaction. "That arm of the windmill right behind you
will rap your head with force enough to put some sense in it."