When one of Hawkins' inventions gets you in its toils, you have to make rapid decisions as to the manner of death you would prefer. In the twinkling of an eye, I decided to cast my fate with Hawkins on the ladder. Nerving myself for the task, I swung to the quivering steel cable, kicked wildly for a moment, and then found a footing. “Now, down!” shouted Hawkins, below me. “Be quick!” That diabolical windmill must have heard him and taken the remark for a personal injunction. It obeyed to the letter. When an elevator drops suddenly, you feel as if your entire internal organism was struggling for exit through the top of your head. As the words left Hawkins' mouth, that was precisely the sensation I experienced. Clinging to the ladder for dear life, down we went! They say that a stone will drop sixteen feet in the first second, thirty-two in the next, and so on. We made far better time than that. The wind had hit the windmill, and she was reeling us back into the well to the very best of her ability. Before I could draw breath we flashed to the level of the earth, down through the mouth of the well, and on down into the white-tiled twilight. My observations ceased at that point. A gurgling shriek came from Hawkins. Then a splash. My nether limbs turned icy cold, next my body and shoulders, and then cracked ice seemed to fill my ears, and I still clung to the ladder, and prayed fervently. For a time I descended through roaring, swirling water. Then my feet were wrenched from their hold, and for a moment I hung downward by my hands alone. Still I clung tightly, and wondered dimly why I seemed to be going up again. Not that it mattered much, for I had given up hope long ago, but still I wondered. And then, still clutching the ladder with a death-grip, with Hawkins kicking about above me, out of the water I shot, and up the well once more. An instant of the half-light, the flash of the sun again--and I hurled myself away from the ladder. I landed on the grass. Hawkins landed on me. Soaking wet, breathless, dazed, we sat up and stared at each other. “I'm glad, Griggs,” said Hawkins, with a watery smile--“I'm glad you had sense enough to keep your grip going around that sprocket at the bottom. I knew we'd be all right if you didn't let go----” “Hawkins,” I said viciously, “shut up!” “But--oh, good Lord!” I glanced toward the gate. The carriage was driving in. The ladies were in the carriage. Evidently the afternoon euchre had been postponed. “There, Hawkins,” I gloated, “you can explain to your wife just why you knew we'd be all right. She'll be a sympathetic listener.” Said Hawkins, with a sickly smile: “Oh, Griggs!” Said Mrs. Hawkins, gasping with horror as Patrick whipped the horses to our side----. But never mind what Mrs. Hawkins said. This chronicle contains enough unpleasantness as it is. There are remarks which, when addressed to one, one feels were better left unsaid.