“So it's a fire escape?”
“Certainly,” chuckled Hawkins, digging around among the ribs and bringing into tangible shape what looked like several sets of huge bird-wings. “No more climbing down red-hot ladders through belching flames! No more children being thrown from fifth story windows! No, siree! All we have to do now is to place the Anti-Fire-Fly on the window-sill, spread the wings, jump into the basket, push her off, and——”
“And drop to instant death!”
“And float gently away from the fire and down to the earth!” concluded Hawkins, opening the window and shoving out the basket until it fairly hung over the back yard. “Just watch me.”
“See here!” I cried. “You're not going to get into that thing?”
“I'm not, eh? You watch me!”
Hawkins had clambered into the basket before I could lay a hand on him.
“Now!” he cried, giving a push with his foot.
My breathing apparatus seemed to go on strike. Hawkins, basket, wings, and all dropped from the window.
For an instant they went straight toward the earth; then, like a parachute opening, the wings spread gracefully, the descent slackened, and Hawkins floated down, down, down—until he landed in the center of the yard without a jar.