"Well, Hawkins," I said, "I think I should have grave doubts of the
man's mental condition."

"Oh, just cut out that foolish talk," snapped the inventor. "I'm quite
serious. Suppose I should tell you that I had thought and thought over
this problem, and finally hit upon an idea for just such a powder?
Where would dynamite and rhexite and meganite and all the rest of them
be, beside----"

He paused theatrically.

"Hawkinsite!"

"Don't know, Hawkins," I said, unable to absorb any of his enthusiasm.
"But let us thank goodness that it is only an idea as yet."

"Oh, but it isn't!" cried the inventor.

"Hawkins!" I gasped, springing to my feet. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just this: Do you see that little vat in the corner?"

I stared fearfully in the direction indicated. A little vat, indeed, I
saw. It stood there, half-filled with a sticky mess, through which an
agitator, run by the electric motor, was revolving slowly.

"That's Hawkinsite, in the process of manufacture!" the inventor
announced.

A sickly terror crept over me. I made instinctively for the door.