I had just gathered all my strength for one last heave when the middle of my back experienced the most excruciating pain it has ever known. Something seemed to lift me clear of the launch, with Hawkins in my arms; I heard a dull report from somewhere, and then we dropped together, right through the surface of the sparkling Atlantic Ocean! Hawkins was picked up first. When I came to the surface, two dark-skinned sailormen were dragging him in, struggling and cursing and pointing wildly toward the horizon, where his launch was careering away with the speed of the wind. It was the French liner La France which had the honor of our rescue. She deposited us in New York on Wednesday morning. Over the rest of this tale hover some painful memories. I am not a fighting man, but I am free to say that when my wife and Mrs. Hawkins delivered to me their joint opinion on broken promises, their sex alone saved them from personal damage. It was upon me that the blame appeared to rest entirely. At least, Hawkins didn't come in for any of it at the time. Just at the moment of that emotional interview, Hawkins was busy in his work-shop--perfecting something. It seems that the motor, after all, was our salvation. Hawkins says that some of the power must have dribbled out of the machine proper and blown the steel dome from its foundations. Assuredly there was plenty of energy behind the thing when it struck me; I have darting pains in that portion of my anatomy every damp day. The launch has never been reported, which is probably quite as well. Perhaps it has reached the open Polar Sea, and is butting itself into flinders against the ice-cakes. Perhaps it is terrorizing some cannibal tribe in the southern oceans by inflicting dents on the shoreline of their island. Wherever the poor little boat may be, it contains eleven of my best cigars, the better part of a substantial meal, and, what is in my eyes of less importance, the sole existing example of what Hawkins still considers an ideal generator of power. CHAPTER III. We were sitting on my porch, smoking placidly in the sunset glow, when Hawkins aroused himself from a momentary reverie and remarked: “Now, if the body were made of aluminum it would be far lighter and just as strong, wouldn't it?” “Probably, Hawkins,” I replied, “but it would also be decidedly stiff and inconvenient. Just imagine how one's aluminium knees would crackle and bend going up and down-stairs, and what an awful job one would have conforming one's aluminum spinal column to the back of a chair.” “No, no, no, no,” cried Hawkins, impatiently. “I don't mean the human body, Griggs; I----” “I'm glad to hear it,” I said. “Don't you go to inventing an aluminum man, Hawkins. Good, old-fashioned flesh and bones have been giving thorough satisfaction for the past few thousand years, and it would be wiser for you to turn your peculiar talents toward----”