“I knew it! I knew it!” Hawkins cried joyfully. “We're safe, after all, just as I said. We'll drop just outside the fence.” “Thank the Lord,” I murmured. “No! No! We'll drop right on that heap of dirt!” predicted Hawkins excitedly. “Yes, sir, that's where we'll drop. D'ye see that fellow wheeling a wheelbarrow toward the pile? Hey!” The man glanced up in amazement. “Farther down every minute!” pursued Hawkins. “I knew we'd be all right! Maybe the Anti-Fire-Fly isn't such a bad thing after all, eh?” “Maybe not,” I sighed. “But I'll take the red-hot ladder.” “Go ahead and take it,” chattered the inventor. “We're not thirty feet from the ground and steering straight for that dirt-pile. Yes, sir, the wind's gone down completely. Hooray!” “Hey, youse!” shouted the man with the wheelbarrow, somewhat excitedly. “Well?” bawled Hawkins. “Steer away from it!” continued the workman, waving his arms at the pile. “We can't steer,” replied Hawkins cheerfully. “But it's all right.” “The poile! The poile! Sure, we've just drew the foire, an' thim's the hot coals! Be careful o' the cinder poile!” “What did he say?” asked Hawkins superciliously. “'Be careful of the cinder pile,' I think.” “Oh, we won't hurt your old cinder pile!” called the inventor jocosely, as the wreck of the Anti-Fire-Fly swooped down with a rush. “But the cinders!” howled the man. “Bedad! They're into it! Mike! Mike! Bring the hose! The hose!” And we _were_ into it. A final rush of air and we struck the pile with a thud. And for my part, I had no sooner landed than I bounced to my feet with a shriek, for that cinder pile was about the hottest proposition it has ever been my misfortune to meet. The cords were all about me, and as I pulled wildly in one direction, I could feel Hawkins pulling as wildly in the opposite. “Let go! Let go, Griggs!” he screamed. “Come my way! Lord! I'm all afire! Come, quick!” “I'm not going to climb back over that infernal heap!” I shouted. “You come this way!” “But my feet! They're burning, and----” A mighty stream of water knocked me headlong to the ground. Sizzling, steaming on the red-hot cinders, it caught Hawkins and hurled his panting person to the other side, Anti-Fire-Fly and all. Mike had arrived with the hose. After a period of wallowing in water and mud I regained my feet. Hawkins was already standing a little distance away, torn, scorched, drenched, black with cinders and staring wild-eyed about him. “Why--why--Griggs,” he mumbled, “what--did--we----” “Oh, we flew away from fire with the Anti-Fire-Fly!” I said. Such was the end of the Anti-Fire-Fly. Attired in such of our own raiment as had survived the cinder pile and the hose, and in other bits of clothing contributed by kindly factory workmen, we took the next boat for New York, and a cab thereafter. We reached home in time to see the ladies mounting the Hawkins' steps, presumably to investigate the reason for our prolonged inspection.