“Don't talk nonsense, Hawkins,” I laughed. “It isn't nonsense. It's the way I feel. But I'll get square on that spiteful tongue of his some day--and when I do! There isn't anything sweeter waiting for me in Heaven than to feel myself emptying a pan of dishwater on that old reprobate from one of the upper windows. “Why, Griggs, sometimes in the night I dream I have him on the floor, that I'm just getting even for some of the things he's said to me and about me, and I wake up in a dripping perspiration and----” “Stop, Hawkins!” I guffawed. “Strikes you funny, too, does it?” the inventor cried angrily. “I suppose you think it's all right for him to talk as he does? Criticise my decorations, tell me they'll all burn up some day, and all that?” “Well, but they might.” “They might not!” shouted Hawkins in a fury. “You don't know any more about it than he does. You couldn't burn up this house if you soaked every carpet in it with oil!” “Why not?” “Aha! Why not? That's just the point. Why not, to be sure? Because it's all prepared for ahead of time.” “Private wire to the engine-house?” I queried. “Private wire to Halifax! There's no private wire about it. See here, Griggs, do you suppose that poor little brain of yours could comprehend a truly great idea?” “It could try,” I said meekly. “Then listen. You remember those dots on the frieze all through the house? You do? All right. Just close your eyes and conceive a little metal tube running back into the wall. Imagine the little tube opening into a large supply pipe in the wall. “Is that clear? Then conceive that the supply pipe in each room connects with a supply pipe in the rear of the house, and that the big pipe terminates--or rather begins--in a big tank on the top floor!” “But what on earth is it all?” “It's the Hawkins Chemico-Sprinkler System!” announced the inventor. “For the Lord's sake!” I gasped. “Yes, sir! It's something like the sprinkling system you see in factories, but all concealed--perfectly adapted to private house purposes! Every one of those dots is simply a little hole in the wall through which, in case of fire, will flow quart after quart of my chemical fire-extinguisher? How's that?” “Er--is the tank full?” I asked, gliding hurriedly away from the wall. “Of course it is. Oh, sit where you were, Griggs, don't drag in that asinine clownishness of yours. Or, better still, come up with me and see the business end of the thing--the tank and all that.” “The stuff isn't inflammable, is it? We're smoking, you know.” “An inflammable fire-extinguishing liquid!” cried Hawkins. “Why, can't you understand that--bah!” He laid a course to the upper regions and I followed. “Out here in the extension,” he explained, when we reached the top floor. “There!” We stood in a bare room, whose emptiness was accentuated by the cold, electric light. Furnishings it had none, save for the big tank in the center. This was a wooden affair, lined with lead.