“No, something stronger than that, or electricity either.”
“Compressed air, perhaps?”
“You must excuse me stating my power, doctor, for to a man of your sensitive nature it might sound alarming.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Mr Falcon lifted his hand and struck the table so violently that he made a wine glass jump until it fell and was smashed on the carpet. He then said without the least apology,—
“My driving power, doctor, will be worked by an explosive!”
“An explosive! I hope it won’t blow you to atoms like the pieces of glass around us.”
“No fear, Peters; I am free, however, to admit that a succession of explosions will produce a rocket-like movement. But you will excuse me, won’t you, for not naming the chemical compound employed?”
“Don’t you worry about that, Mr Falcon. I am quite convinced as to the violent nature of it, and I won’t press you for a further exposition of your new motive power; indeed, I perceive that, at the outset, you will go up (unless you funk it) like a live military shell or rocket. Secondly, that you will have folding wings to your craft; and thirdly, that by the aid of explosive materials, you will set these in motion, so that you can flap, sail, whirl or swoop.”
“Never mind the swooping, doctor; that might be resorted to in a desperate emergency.”
“Yes, in the last scene of a closing act, I guess.”