Just here my wife broke in with a spasmodic remark anent the doings of the Russians in Manchuria, and a discussion of the merits of Hawkins' inventions was happily averted. But the spunky light didn't die out of Hawkins' eye. He appeared to be nursing something beside wrath, and when we arose from the table he remarked shortly: “Come up to the house, Griggs, and smoke a cigar while we look it over.” “And note the charm of the inventionless home,” supplemented his wife. “Inventionless fiddlestick!” snapped Hawkins as he slammed the door behind us. “It's a wonder to me that women weren't created either with sense or without tongues.” I made no comment and we walked in silence to the Hawkins house. It had been done over in a style which must have made Hawkins' bank account look like an Arabian grain field after a particularly bad locust year; but beyond noting the general beauty of the decorations, I found nothing remarkable until we reached the second floor. There, as we gazed from the back windows, it struck me that something familiar had departed, and I asked: “What's become of the fire-escape?” “Don't you see, eh?” said the inventor, with a prodigiously mysterious smile. “Hardly. Have you made it invisible?” “No and yes,” chuckled Hawkins. “What would you say, Griggs, to a fire-escape that you kept indoors until it was needed?” “I should say 'nay, nay,' if any one wanted me to use it.” “No, I mean--oh, come up-stairs and I'll show it to you at once.” “Show me what, Hawkins?” I cried, detaining him with a firm hand. “Is it another contrivance? Has it a motor? Does it use gasolene or gunpowder or dynamite?” “No, it does not!” said the inventor gruffly, trudging toward the top of the house. “There!” he exclaimed when we had reached the upper floor. “That's it. What do you think of it?” It was a device of strange appearance. It seemed to be a huge clothes-basket, such as is used for transportation of the family “wash,” and it was piled with what appeared to be the remains of as many white sun-umbrellas as could have been collected at half a dozen seaside resorts. “What is it?” I said with a blank smile. “Junk?” “No, it's not junk. That mass of ribs and white silk which looks like junk to your unaccustomed eye constitutes a set of aeroplanes or wings.” “But the other thing is merely the common or domestic variety of wash-basket, is it not?” “Well--er--yes,” admitted Hawkins with cold dignity. “That happened to be the most suitable thing for my purpose in this experimental model. Now, you see, when the wings are spread the basket is suspended beneath just as the car of a balloon is suspended from a gas-bag, and----” “Aha! I see it all now!” I cried. “You fill the basket, point it in the right direction, and it flaps its wings and flies away to the washlady!”