“Well, go on now and climb out,” said Hawkins, waving an answer to the observation. “Go ahead, Griggs.”
I was too thankful for our near deliverance to spend my breath on vituperation. I reached toward the rung above me and prepared to pull myself back to earth.
And then a strange thing happened. The rung shot upward. I shot after it. One instant I was in the twilight of the well; the next instant I was blinded by the sun.
Too late I realized that I had ascended above the mouth, and was journeying rapidly toward the top of the tower. It had all happened with that sickening, surprising suddenness that characterizes Hawkins' inventions.
Up, up, up, I went, at first quickly, and then more slowly, and still more slowly, until the ladder stopped again, with my eyes peering over the top of the tower.
It was obliging of the ladder to stop there; it could have hurled me over the top just as easily and broken my neck.
I didn't waste any time in thanking the ladder. Before the accursed thing could get into motion again, I climbed to the shaft and perched there, dizzy and bewildered.
Hawkins followed suit, clambered to the opposite end of the shaft, and arranged himself there, astride.
“Well,” I remarked, when I had found a comparatively secure seat on the bearing—a seat fully two inches wide by four long—“did the gear slip again?”
“No, of course not,” said the inventor. “The windmill simply started turning in the opposite direction.”