“And clamber down the side—twenty or thirty stories?”
“And even if we can't land, we shan't fall. The construction of these wings is such——”
“Oh, hang the construction of your wings!” I cried. “We're going right toward the bay—suppose the wind dies down and lets us into the water?”
“Well, these wings are water-proof, you know,” said Hawkins. “They might——”
“Yes, and the bay might dry up, so that we could walk back if we escaped being broken in pieces, Hawkins,” I sneered.
Hawkins subsided. The breeze did not.
It was one of the most impolitely persistent breezes I have ever encountered. It seemed bent on landing us in New York harbor, and before many minutes we were suspended high above that expansive, and in some circumstances, charming body of water.
{Illustration: “Before many minutes we were suspended high above that expansive, and in some circumstances charming, body of water."}
Furthermore, having wafted us something like a quarter of a mile from shore, it proceeded to die out in a manner which was, to say the least, disheartening.
Hawkins grew paler by perceptible shades as we progressed, ever nearer the water and farther from hope; and it was not until I opened my mouth to vent a few last invidious criticisms of him and his methods that the inventor's face brightened.