  Hawkins grasped his little wheel, puffed up his chest, and gave a tremendous twist. And the wheel snapped off in Hawkins' hands! “Why—why—why——” he stuttered, in amazement. “Yes, now you've done it!” I rapped out, savagely. “How the dickens are we to get back?” “There, Griggs, there,” said Hawkins, “don't be so childishly impatient. I shall simply unlock this case again and control the steering-gear from the inside. Certainly even you must be able to understand that.” The calm superiority of his tone was maddening. One or two of my sentiments defied restraint. Heaven knows I didn't suppose it would make Hawkins nervous to hear them, but it did. His hands shook as he fumbled with the key of his steel box, and at a particularly vicious remark of mine he stood erect. “Well, Griggs, you've put us in a hole this time!” he groaned. “How?” “You made me so nervous that I snapped that key off short in the lock!” “What!” I shrieked. “Yes, sir. The motor's locked up in there with fuel enough to keep her going for three months. I can't stop her or move the rudder without getting into the case, and nothing but dynamite would dent that case!” “Then, Hawkins,” I said, a terrible calm coming over me, “we shall have to go straight ahead now until we hit something or are blown up. Am I right?” “Quite right,” muttered Hawkins, defiantly. “And it's all your fault!” I transfixed the inventor with a vindictive stare, until he abandoned the attempt at bravado and looked away. “We—we may blow back, you know,” he said, vaguely, addressing the breeze. “The chances of that being particularly favorable by reason of your having set your miserable rudder to correspond with the present wind?” I asked. “Can't we tear up the woodwork and contrive some sort of rudder?” “We could,” admitted Hawkins, “if it wasn't all riveted down with my own patented rivets, which can't be removed, once they're set.” Hawkins' rivets are really what they claim to be. Only one consideration has delayed their universal adoption. They cost a trifle less than one dollar apiece to manufacture and set. But they stay where they are put, and I knew that if the launch's woodwork was held together by them, it wasn't likely to come apart much before Judgment Day. “Real nice mess, isn't it, Hawkins?” I said. “It—it might be worse.” “Far worse,” I agreed. “We might be wallowing helplessly around in those heaving billows, or a gale might be tiring itself all out in the effort to swamp us. But, as it is, we are merely careering gaily over the sunlit waves at an unearthly speed. In a day or two, Hawkins, we shall sight the French coast, barring accidents, go ashore, and——” “By Jove, Griggs!” exclaimed the inventor, lighting up on the instant. “Do you know, I hadn't thought of that? Just let me see. Yes, my boy, at this rate we shall be in the Bay of Biscay Monday night or Tuesday morning, at the latest. Think of it, Griggs! Think of the fame! Think of——” I couldn't bear to think of it any longer. I knew that if I thought about it for another ten seconds, I should hurl Hawkins into the sea and go to my own watery grave with murder on my hands. The bow of the launch being the furthest possible point from its owner, I gathered up my overcoat, cigars, and a sandwich, and crouched there, keeping out of the terrific wind as much as possible, watching for a possible vessel and munching the food with a growing wonder as to whether I should ever return to the happy home wherein it was prepared. There I sat until sunset, and it was the latest sunset I have ever observed. With dusk descending over the lonely ocean, I returned in silence to Hawkins. He was in bounding spirits. He chattered incessantly about the trip, planned a lecture tour—“Across the Atlantic in Forty Hours”—formed a stock company to manufacture his motor, offered me the London agency at an incredible salary, and built a stately mansion just off Central Park with his own portion of the proceeds. Having babbled himself dry, Hawkins informed me that salt air invariably made him sleepy, and crawled into the cabin for slumber. And he slept. It passed my understanding, but the man had such utter confidence in himself and his unintentional trip that he snored peacefully throughout the night. I didn't. I felt that my last hours in the land of the living should be passed in consciousness, and I spent that terrible time of darkness in more or less prayerful meditation. After ages, the dawn arrived. I lit another cigar, and wriggled wearily to the bow of the boat and scanned the waters. There was a vessel! Far, far away, to be sure, but steaming so that we must cross her path in another fifteen minutes. I tore off my overcoat, scrambled to the little deck, wound one arm about a post, and waved the coat frantically. Nearer and nearer we came to the steamer. More and more I feared that the signal might be unnoticed, or noticed too late. But it wasn't. I have known some happy sights in my time, but I never saw anything that filled me with one-half the joy I felt on realizing that the steamer-people were lowering one of their boats. They were doing it, there was no doubt about the matter. In five minutes we should be near enough to their cutter to swim for it. I dived to the stern to awaken Hawkins. He was already awake. He stood there, tousled and happy, sniffing the crisp air, and he had seen the approaching boat. “Got it ready?” he inquired, placidly. “Got what ready?” “Why, the message,” exclaimed Hawkins, opening his eyes in astonishment. “We'll have to hustle with it, I reckon.” “Hawkins, what new idiocy is this?” I gasped. “Surely we're going to give that steamer a few lines to tell the world about our trip?” Seconds passed, before the full, terrible significance of his words filtered into my brain. “Do you mean to say,” I roared, “that you are not going to swim for that boat?” “Certainly I do mean to say it,” he replied stiffly. “Let me have your fountain pen, Griggs.” I took one glance at the boat. I took another at Hawkins. Then I gripped him about the waist and threw my whole soul into the task of pitching him overboard. Hawkins, as I have said, is heavier than I. He puffed and strained and pulled and hauled at me, swearing like a trooper the while. And neither of us budged an inch. The cutter came nearer, nearer, always nearer. Thirty seconds more and we should shoot by it forever. The thought of losing this chance of rescue almost maddened me. I had just gathered all my strength for one last heave when the middle of my back experienced the most excruciating pain it has ever known. Something seemed to lift me clear of the launch, with Hawkins in my arms; I heard a dull report from somewhere, and then we dropped together, right through the surface of the sparkling Atlantic Ocean! Hawkins was picked up first. When I came to the surface, two dark-skinned sailormen were dragging him in, struggling and cursing and pointing wildly toward the horizon, where his launch was careering away with the speed of the wind. It was the French liner La France which had the honor of our rescue. She deposited us in New York on Wednesday morning. Over the rest of this tale hover some painful memories. I am not a fighting man, but I am free to say that when my wife and Mrs. Hawkins delivered to me their joint opinion on broken promises, their sex alone saved them from personal damage. It was upon me that the blame appeared to rest entirely. At least, Hawkins didn't come in for any of it at the time. Just at the moment of that emotional interview, Hawkins was busy in his work-shop—perfecting something. It seems that the motor, after all, was our salvation. Hawkins says that some of the power must have dribbled out of the machine proper and blown the steel dome from its foundations. Assuredly there was plenty of energy behind the thing when it struck me; I have darting pains in that portion of my anatomy every damp day. The launch has never been reported, which is probably quite as well. Perhaps it has reached the open Polar Sea, and is butting itself into flinders against the ice-cakes. Perhaps it is terrorizing some cannibal tribe in the southern oceans by inflicting dents on the shoreline of their island. Wherever the poor little boat may be, it contains eleven of my best cigars, the better part of a substantial meal, and, what is in my eyes of less importance, the sole existing example of what Hawkins still considers an ideal generator of power.
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