I expected to see Hawkins, ladder, and all shoot down into the water, and I wondered whether Heaven would send wind enough to hoist him out before he drowned.
But nothing happened. Hawkins himself stood there and surveyed me with sneering triumph.
“You see, Griggs,” he observed caustically, “once in a while I do know something about my inventions. Now, if your faint heart will allow it, I should advise you to take a peep down here. So far as I know, it's the only well in the State built entirely of white tiles. Just steady yourself on the ladder and look.”
Like a senseless boy taking a dare, I reached out, gripped the rung above Hawkins, and looked down.
Certainly it was a fine well. I never paid much attention to wells, but I could see at a glance that this one was exceptional.
“I had it tiled last week,” continued Hawkins. “A tiled well is absolutely safe, you see. Nothing can happen in a tiled well, no——”
That was another of Hawkins' fallacies. Something happened right then and there.
A gentle breeze started the windmill. Slowly, spectacularly, the ladder began to move—downwards!
“Why, say!” cried the inventor, in amazement, as he made one futile effort to regain the ground. “Do you think——”
I wasn't thinking for him, just then. All my wits were centered on one great, awful problem.