Hawkins was already standing a little distance away, torn, scorched, drenched, black with cinders and staring wild-eyed about him.
“Why—why—Griggs,” he mumbled, “what—did—we——”
“Oh, we flew away from fire with the Anti-Fire-Fly!” I said.
Such was the end of the Anti-Fire-Fly.
Attired in such of our own raiment as had survived the cinder pile and the hose, and in other bits of clothing contributed by kindly factory workmen, we took the next boat for New York, and a cab thereafter.
We reached home in time to see the ladies mounting the Hawkins' steps, presumably to investigate the reason for our prolonged inspection.
For a few moments they seemed quite incapable of speech. Mrs. Hawkins was the first to regain the use of her tongue.
“Herbert,” she said in an ominously calm tone, “what was it this time?”
Hawkins smiled foolishly.
“It was the Hawkins Anti-Fire-Fly,” I said spitefully. “Fly away from fire with the Anti-Fire-Fly, you know. Tell your wife about it, Hawkins.”