“Yes, sir. Just at present it's a balloon with not quite enough gas in it to counterbalance the pull of gravitation on the car and ourselves. I've got two cylinders of compressed gas still connected with it. When I let them feed automatically into the balloon, and then automatically drop the iron cylinders themselves in to the road, we shall fairly bound over the ground, because the balloon will just a trifle more than carry the whole outfit.” “Well, don't waste all that good gas, Hawkins,” I said hastily. “I can--I can understand perfectly just how we should bound without that.” “Don't worry about the gas,” smiled Hawkins placidly. “It costs practically nothing. There! One of the cylinders is discharging now.” I glanced timidly above. Sure enough, the canopy was expanding slowly and assuming a spherical shape. Presently a thud announced that Hawkins had dropped the cylinder. Then he pulled another lever, and the process was repeated. As the second cylinder dropped, we rose nearly a foot into the air. Still we maintained a forward motion, and that was puzzling. “How is it, Hawkins,” I quavered, “that we're still going ahead when we don't touch the ground more than once in a hundred feet?” “That's the propeller,” chuckled the inventor. “I put a propeller at the back, so that the auto is almost a dirigible balloon. Oh, there's nothing lacking about the Hawkins Auto-aero-mobile, Griggs, I can tell you.” When I had recovered from the first nervous shock, the contrivance really did not seem so dangerous. We traveled in long, low leaps, the machine rarely rising more than a foot from the ground, and the motion was certainly unique and rather pleasant. Nevertheless, I have a haunting fear of anything invented by Hawkins, and my mind would insist upon wandering to thoughts of home. “Not going down-town, are you, Hawkins?” I asked with what carelessness I could assume. “Just for a minute. I want some cigars.” “Hawkins,” I murmured, “you are a pretty heavy man. When you get out of this budding airship, it won't soar into the heavens with me, will it?” “It would if I got out,” said the inventor, with pleasant assurance. “But I'm not going to get out. We'll let the cigar man bring the stuff to us.” So it would rise if any weight left the car! That was food for thought. Suppose Hawkins, who operated the auto according to the magazine pictures of racing chauffeurs, leaning far forward, should topple into the road? Suppose a stray breeze should tilt the machine and throw out some part? Up without doubt, we should go, and there seemed to be quite an open space up above, through which we might travel indefinitely without hitting anything that would stay our celestial journey. “How do you let the gas out of the balloon, Hawkins?” I ventured presently. “Oh, the cock's down underneath the machine,” said that gentleman briefly. “Don't worry, Griggs. I'm here.”