“Great Caesar's ghost!” gurgled the inventor. “This is awful!”
“Awful!” I gasped when breath had returned. “It's—it's——”
“Lord! Lord! We're going straight for Staten Island. Don't move, Griggs.”
“I can't,” I said. “I'm caught tight here. Good-by, Hawkins.”
“We're—we're not done for yet,” quavered that individual. “We may hit land. But isn't—isn't it terrible?”
“Oh, no,” I groaned. “It's all right. No more climbing down red-hot ladders through belching flames! No more throwing children from——”
“Don't joke, Griggs,” wailed Hawkins. “I will say I'm sorry I got you into this.”
“Thank you, Hawkins,” I said, nearly strangled by a cord which persisted in twisting itself about my neck. “So am I.”
Conversation lagged after that. For my part, I was too dazed and too firmly enmeshed in the cords to say much.
I fancy that the same applied to Hawkins, but he happened to be facing ahead, and now and then he called back bulletins of our progress.