“Oh, the cock's down underneath the machine,” said that gentleman briefly. “Don't worry, Griggs. I'm here.”
That, in a nutshell, was just what was worrying me, but there seemed to be nothing more to say. I relapsed into silence.
We rolled or floated or bounced, or whatever you may choose to call it, into town without accident or incident. People stared considerably at the kangaroo antics of our car, and one or two horses, after their first glance, developed furor transitorius on the spot; but Hawkins managed to pull up before his cigar store, which was in the outskirts of the town, without kicking up any very serious disturbance.
The cigars aboard, I had hoped to turn my face homeward. Not so Hawkins.
“Now, down we go to the square,” he cried buoyantly, “do a turn before the court house, float straight over the common, and then bounce away home. I guess it'll make the natives talk, eh, Griggs?”
“Your things usually do, Hawkins,” I sighed. “But why perform to-day? This is only the first trial trip. Something might go wrong.”
“My dear boy,” laughed the inventor, “this is one of those trial trips that simply can't go wrong, because every detail is perfected to the uttermost limit.”
That settled it; we made for the square.
The square, be it remarked, is in the center of the town. The court house stands on one side, the post office on the other, and the square itself is a beautifully kept lawn.
We were just in sight of the grass when I fancied that I detected a rattle.