We traveled in long, low leaps, the machine rarely rising more than a foot from the ground, and the motion was certainly unique and rather pleasant.
Nevertheless, I have a haunting fear of anything invented by Hawkins, and my mind would insist upon wandering to thoughts of home.
“Not going down-town, are you, Hawkins?” I asked with what carelessness I could assume.
“Just for a minute. I want some cigars.”
“Hawkins,” I murmured, “you are a pretty heavy man. When you get out of this budding airship, it won't soar into the heavens with me, will it?”
“It would if I got out,” said the inventor, with pleasant assurance. “But I'm not going to get out. We'll let the cigar man bring the stuff to us.”
So it would rise if any weight left the car! That was food for thought.
Suppose Hawkins, who operated the auto according to the magazine pictures of racing chauffeurs, leaning far forward, should topple into the road? Suppose a stray breeze should tilt the machine and throw out some part?
Up without doubt, we should go, and there seemed to be quite an open space up above, through which we might travel indefinitely without hitting anything that would stay our celestial journey.
“How do you let the gas out of the balloon, Hawkins?” I ventured presently.