Now, the idea of walking down to the coal-yard certainly seemed commonplace and harmless. To me it suggested nothing more sinister than a super-heated Irish lady perspiring over Hawkins' range in the dog days. At least, it suggested nothing more at the time, and I turned the corner with Hawkins and walked on, unsuspecting. Except that it belonged to a particularly large concern, the coal-yard which Hawkins honored by his patronage was much like other coal-yards. The high walls of the storage bins rose from the sidewalk, and there was the conventional arch for the wagons, and the little, dingy office beside it. Into the latter Hawkins made his way, while I loitered without. Hawkins seemed to be upon good terms with the coal people. He and the men in the office were laughing genially. Through the open window I heard Hawkins file his order for four tons of coal. Later some one said: “Splendid, Mr. Hawkins, splendid.” Then somebody else said: “No, there seems to be no flaw in any particular.” And still later, the first voice announced that they would make the first payment one week from to-day, at which Hawkins' voice rose with a sort of pompous joy. I paid very little heed to the scraps of conversation; but presently I paid considerable attention to Hawkins, for while he had entered the coal office a well-developed man, he emerged apparently deformed. His chest seemed to have expanded something over a foot, and his nose had attained an elevation that pointed his gaze straight to the skies. “Good gracious, Hawkins, what is it?” I asked. “Have they been inflating you with gas in there?” “I beg pardon?” “What has happened to swell your bosom? Is it the first payment?” “Oh, you heard that, did you?” said the inventor, with a condescending smile. “Yes, Griggs, I may confess to some slight satisfaction in that payment. It is a matter of one thousand dollars--from the coal people, you know.” “But what for? Have you threatened to invent something for them, and now are exacting blackmail to desist?” “Tush, Griggs, tush!” responded Hawkins. “Do make some attempt to subdue that inane wit. I fancy you'll feel rather cheap hearing that that thousand dollars is the first payment on something I have invented!” “What!” “Certainly. I am selling the patent to these people. It is the Hawkins Crano-Scale!” “Crano-Scale?” I reflected. “What is it? A hair tonic?” “Now, that is about the deduction your mental apparatus would make!” sneered the inventor. “But can it be possible that you have constructed something that actually works?” I cried. “And you've sold it--actually sold it?” “I have sold it, and there's no 'actually' about it!” And Hawkins stalked majestically away through the arch and into the yard beyond. The idea of one of Hawkins' inventions actually in practical operation was almost too weird for conception. He must be heading for it; and if it existed I must see it. I followed.