“Farther down every minute!” pursued Hawkins. “I knew we'd be all right! Maybe the Anti-Fire-Fly isn't such a bad thing after all, eh?”
“Maybe not,” I sighed. “But I'll take the red-hot ladder.”
“Go ahead and take it,” chattered the inventor. “We're not thirty feet from the ground and steering straight for that dirt-pile. Yes, sir, the wind's gone down completely. Hooray!”
“Hey, youse!” shouted the man with the wheelbarrow, somewhat excitedly.
“Well?” bawled Hawkins.
“Steer away from it!” continued the workman, waving his arms at the pile.
“We can't steer,” replied Hawkins cheerfully. “But it's all right.”
“The poile! The poile! Sure, we've just drew the foire, an' thim's the hot coals! Be careful o' the cinder poile!”
“What did he say?” asked Hawkins superciliously.
“'Be careful of the cinder pile,' I think.”