CHAPTER I.     

       Hawkins is part inventor and part idiot.     

       Hawkins has money, which generally mitigates idiocy; but in his case it also allows free rein to his inventive genius, and that is a bad thing.     

       When I decided to build a nice, quiet summer home in the Berkshires, I paid for the ground before discovering that the next villa belonged to Hawkins.     

       Had I known then what I know now, my country-seat would be located somewhere in central Illinois or western Oregon; but at that time my knowledge of Hawkins extended no farther than the facts that he resided a few doors below me in New York, and that we exchanged a kindly smile every morning on the L.     

       One day last August, having mastered the mechanism of our little steam       runabout, my wife ventured out alone, to call upon Mrs. Hawkins.     

       I am not a worrying man, but automobile repairs are expensive, and when she had been gone an hour or so I strolled toward our neighbors.     

       The auto I was relieved to find standing before the door, apparently in good health, and I had already turned back when Hawkins came trotting along the drive from the stable.     

       “Just in time, Griggs, just in time!” he cried, exuberantly.     

       “In time for what?”      

       “The first trial of—”      

       “Now, see here, Hawkins—” I began, preparing to flee, for I knew too well the meaning of that light in his eyes.     

       “The Hawkins Horse-brake!”, he finished, triumphantly.     

       “Hawkins,” I said, solemnly, “far be it from me to disparage your work; but I recall most distinctly the Hawkins Aero-motor, which moted you to the top of that maple tree and dropped you on my devoted head. I also have some 

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