Then it occurred to me that Hawkins' wife would later wish to know what his dying words had been, and I went into the auto with a flying leap, sent it about in its own length, almost jumped the hedge, and thus started upon a race whose memory will haunt me when greater things have faded into the forgotten past. My runabout, while hardly a racer, is supposed to have some pretty speedy machinery stored away in it, but the engine had a big undertaking in trying to overhaul that old mare. It was painfully apparent that something--possibly righteous indignation at being the victim of one of Hawkins' experiments--had roused a latent devil within Maud S. Her heels were viciously threshing up the dirt at the foot of the hill before I began my blood-curdling coast at the top. How under the sun anything could go faster than did that automobile is beyond my conception; yet when I reached the level ground again and breathed a little prayer of thanks that an all-wise Providence had spared my life on the hill, Hawkins seemed still to have the same lead. That he was traveling like a hurricane was evidenced by the wake of fear-maddened chickens and barking dogs that were just recovering their senses when I came upon them. I put my lever back to the last notch. Heavens, how that auto went! It rocked from one side of the road to the other. It bounded over great stones and tried to veer into ditches, with the express purpose of hurling me to destruction. It snorted and puffed and rattled and skidded; but above all, it went! There is no use attempting a record of my impressions during that first half mile--in fact, I am not aware that I had any. But after a time I drew nearer to Hawkins, and at last came within thirty feet of the galloping Maud. Hawkins' face was white and set, he bounced painfully up and down, risking his neck at every bounce, but one hand kept a death-like grip on the lever of the horse-brake. “Jump!” I screamed. “Throw yourself off!” Hawkins regarded me with much the expression the early Christians must have worn when conducted into the arena. “No,” he shouted. “It's”--bump--“it's all right. It'll”--bump--“work in a minute.” “No, it won't! Jump, for Heaven's sake, jump!” I think that Hawkins had framed a reply, but just then a particularly hard bump appeared to knock the breath out of his body. He took a better grip on the bridle and said no more. I hardly knew what to do. Every minute brought us nearer to the town, where traffic is rather heavy all day. Up to now we had had a clear track, but in another five minutes a collision would be almost as inevitable as the sunset. I endeavored to recall the “First Aid to the Injured” treatment for fractured skulls and broken backs, and I thanked goodness that there would be only one auto to complete the mangling of Hawkins' remains, should they drop into the road after the smash.