“What's become of the fire-escape?”
“Don't you see, eh?” said the inventor, with a prodigiously mysterious smile.
“Hardly. Have you made it invisible?”
“No and yes,” chuckled Hawkins. “What would you say, Griggs, to a fire-escape that you kept indoors until it was needed?”
“I should say 'nay, nay,' if any one wanted me to use it.”
“No, I mean—oh, come up-stairs and I'll show it to you at once.”
“Show me what, Hawkins?” I cried, detaining him with a firm hand. “Is it another contrivance? Has it a motor? Does it use gasolene or gunpowder or dynamite?”
“No, it does not!” said the inventor gruffly, trudging toward the top of the house.
“There!” he exclaimed when we had reached the upper floor. “That's it. What do you think of it?”
It was a device of strange appearance. It seemed to be a huge clothes-basket, such as is used for transportation of the family “wash,” and it was piled with what appeared to be the remains of as many white sun-umbrellas as could have been collected at half a dozen seaside resorts.