Produced by Steen Christensen, Tom Chappell, Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team MR. HAWKINS' HUMOROUS ADVENTURES By Edgar Franklin 1904 [Illustration: “That's enough, Hawkins,” I said, “come home.”] CHAPTER I. Hawkins is part inventor and part idiot. Hawkins has money, which generally mitigates idiocy; but in his case it also allows free rein to his inventive genius, and that is a bad thing. When I decided to build a nice, quiet summer home in the Berkshires, I paid for the ground before discovering that the next villa belonged to Hawkins. Had I known then what I know now, my country-seat would be located somewhere in central Illinois or western Oregon; but at that time my knowledge of Hawkins extended no farther than the facts that he resided a few doors below me in New York, and that we exchanged a kindly smile every morning on the L. One day last August, having mastered the mechanism of our little steam runabout, my wife ventured out alone, to call upon Mrs. Hawkins. I am not a worrying man, but automobile repairs are expensive, and when she had been gone an hour or so I strolled toward our neighbors. The auto I was relieved to find standing before the door, apparently in good health, and I had already turned back when Hawkins came trotting along the drive from the stable. “Just in time, Griggs, just in time!” he cried, exuberantly. “In time for what?” “The first trial of--” “Now, see here, Hawkins--” I began, preparing to flee, for I knew too well the meaning of that light in his eyes. “The Hawkins Horse-brake!”, he finished, triumphantly. “Hawkins,” I said, solemnly, “far be it from me to disparage your work; but I recall most distinctly the Hawkins Aero-motor, which moted you to the top of that maple tree and dropped you on my devoted head. I also have some recollection of your gasolene milker, the one that exploded and burned every hair off the starboard side of my best Alderney cow. If you are bent on trying something new, hold it off until I can get my poor wife out of harm's way.” Hawkins favored me with a stare that would have withered a row of hardy sunflowers and turned his eyes to the stable. Something was being led toward us from that direction. The foundation of the something I recognized as Hawkins' aged work horse, facetiously christened Maud S. The superstructure was the most remarkable collection of mechanism I ever saw. Four tall steel rods stuck into the air at the four corners of the animal. They seemed to be connected in some way to a machine strapped to the back of the saddle. I presume the machine was logical enough if you understood it, but beyond noting that it bore striking resemblance to the vital organs of a clock, I cannot attempt a description. “That will do, Patrick,” said Hawkins, taking the bridle and regarding his handiwork with an enraptured smile. “Well, Griggs, frankly, what do you think of it?”