“Here! What are you doing?” cried the inventor. “Don't touch any of those handles.” “It is that I seek a place for ze hand,” murmured the cook apologetically. “Well, find it and let her down. Got your grip?” “Aha! I have eet!” announced the Frenchman, clutching one of the brass knobs. “All right. Down!” Down went the Gasowashine. And a very small fraction of one second later things began to happen. Each of Hawkins' inventions possesses a latent devil. You have only to brush against the handle or the valve or the string, or whatever it may be that connects him with the outer world, and the demon awakes. In this case, the cook must have pinched the tail of the devil of the Gasowashine, for he sprang into action with a rush. “Is it to release the hold?” asked the Frenchman as the wheels touched the floor. “No, not till I--hey!” cried Hawkins, starting back in amazement. “Our--our dishes!” ejaculated the manager breathlessly. The Gasowashine and the cook were traveling across the kitchen together. The Frenchman, with remarkable presence of mind, was behind the machine and dragging back with all his might; but as well could he have hauled to a standstill the locomotive of the Empire State Express. The Gasowashine, puffing heavily as any racing auto, had plans of its own and was executing them to the accompaniment of a simply appalling rattle of crockery. “Don't let go! Don't let go!” cried Hawkins. “Keep hold, my man!” “I do! I do! _Mais, mon Dieu!_” called the Frenchman jerkily. “But, Mr. Hawkins,” gasped the manager as we hurried after, “what will become of our china?” “The devil take your china!” snapped Hawkins, forgetful of his recent guarantee. “If they run into the wall, it'll break the motor!” They were not going to run into the wall. The Gasowashine approached the side of the apartment, swerved easily to the left, and made for the incline which led to the hotel dining-room. “Good gracious!” screamed the manager. “Not up there! Knock that thing over on its side, Henri!” “Don't you do it, Henri,” cried Hawkins. “If you do it'll smash.” “Let it smash!” roared the manager. “Throw it over, Henri!” “But I cannot,” gasped the Frenchman as the Gasowashine sets its wheels upon the incline. “Here! Somebody get in front of that thing!” commanded Macdougal. “Don't let it go up. Knock it over!” “If you knock that over!” stormed Hawkins, springing to the side of his contrivance and feeling excitedly for the valve which should shut off the supply of gasolene. Two or three waiters, having in mind that their jobs depended upon Macdougal's approbation rather than Hawkins' strove to obey the former's injunction. They ran to the fore end of the Gasowashine and seized it and pushed back upon it and sideways. And did the Gasowashine mind? Hardly.