Produced by Steen Christensen, Tom Chappell, Suzanne L.
Shell, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team
MR. HAWKINS' HUMOROUS ADVENTURES
By Edgar Franklin
1904
[Illustration: “That's enough, Hawkins,” I said, “come home.”]
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 recollection of your gasolene milker, the one that exploded
and burned every hair off the starboard side of my best Alderney cow.
If you are bent on trying something new, hold it off until I can get my
poor wife out of harm's way.”
Hawkins favored me with a stare that would have withered a row of hardy
sunflowers and turned his eyes to the stable.
Something was being led toward us from that direction.
The foundation of the something I recognized as Hawkins' aged work
horse, facetiously christened Maud S. The superstructure was the most
remarkable collection of mechanism I ever saw.
Four tall steel rods stuck into the air at the four corners of the
animal. They seemed to be connected in some way to a machine strapped to
the back of the saddle.
I presume the machine was logical enough if you understood it, but
beyond noting that it bore striking resemblance to the vital organs of a
clock, I cannot attempt a description.
“That will do, Patrick,” said Hawkins, taking the bridle and regarding
his handiwork with an enraptured smile. “Well, Griggs, frankly, what do
you think of it?”
“Frankly,” I said, “when I look at that thing, I feel somehow incapable
of thought.”
“I rather imagined that it would take your eye,” replied Hawkins,
complacently. “Now, just see the simplicity of the thing, Griggs. Drop
your childish prejudices for a minute and examine it.
“Let us suppose that this brake is fitted to a fiery saddle-horse. The
rider has lost all control. In another minute, unless he can stop the
beast, he will be dashed to the ground and kicked into pulp. What does
he do? Simply pulls this lever--thus! The animal can't budge!”
An uncanny clankety-clankety-clank accompanied his words, and the rods
dropped suddenly. In their descent they somehow managed to gather two
steel cuffs apiece.
When they ceased dropping, Maud S. had a steel bar down the back of
each leg, with a cuff above and a cuff below the knee. Hawkins was quite
right--so far as I could see; Maud was anchored until some well-disposed
person brought a hack-saw and cut off her shackles.
“You see how it acts when she is standing still?” chuckled the inventor,
replacing the rods. “Just keep your eyes open and note the suddenness
with which she stops running.”
“Hawkins,” I cried, despairingly, as he led the animal up the road,
“don't go to all that trouble on my account. I can see perfectly that
the thing is a success. Don't try it again.”
“My dear Griggs,” said Hawkins, coldly, “this trial trip is for my own
personal satisfaction, not yours. To tell the truth, I had no idea that
you or any one else would be here to witness my triumph.”
He went perhaps three or four hundred feet up the road; then he turned
Maud's nose homeward and clambered to her back.
As I waited behind the hedge, I grieved for the old mare. Hawkins
evidently intended urging her into something more rapid than the walk
she had used for so many years, and I feared that at her advanced age
the excitement might prove injurious.
But Maud broke into such a sedate canter when Hawkins had thumped her
ribs a few times with his heels, and her kindly old face seemed to wear
such a gentle expression as she approached, that I breathed easier.
“Now, Griggs!” cried Hawkins, coming abreast. “Watch--now!”
He thrust one hand behind, grasped the lever, and gave it a tug. The
little rods remained in the air.
A puzzled expression flitted over Hawkins' face, and as he cantered by
he appeared to tug a trifle harder.
This time something happened.
I heard a whir like the echo of a sawmill, and saw several yards of
steel spring shoot out of the inwards of the machine. I heard a sort of
frantic shriek from Maud S. I saw a sudden cloud of pebbles and dust in
the road, such as I should imagine would be kicked up by an exploding
shell--and that was all.
Hawkins, Maud, and the infernal machine were making for the county town
with none of the grace, but nearly all the speed, of a shooting star.
For a few seconds I stood dazed.
Then it occurred to me that Hawkins' wife would later wish to know what
his dying words had been, and I went into the auto with a flying leap,
sent it about in its own length, almost jumped the hedge, and thus
started upon a race whose memory will haunt me when greater things have
faded into the forgotten past.
My runabout, while hardly a racer, is supposed to have some pretty
speedy machinery stored away in it, but the engine had a big undertaking
in trying to overhaul that old mare.
It was painfully apparent that something--possibly righteous indignation
at being the victim of one of Hawkins' experiments--had roused a latent
devil within Maud S. Her heels were viciously threshing up the dirt at
the foot of the hill before I began my blood-curdling coast at the top.
How under the sun anything could go faster than did that automobile
is beyond my conception; yet when I reached the level ground again
and breathed a little prayer of thanks that an all-wise Providence had
spared my life on the hill, Hawkins seemed still to have the same lead.
That he was traveling like a hurricane was evidenced by the wake of
fear-maddened chickens and barking dogs that were just recovering their
senses when I came upon them.
I put my lever back to the last notch.
Heavens, how that auto went! It rocked from one side of the road to the
other. It bounded over great stones and tried to veer into ditches, with
the express purpose of hurling me to destruction.
It snorted and puffed and rattled and skidded; but above all, it went!
There is no use attempting a record of my impressions during that first
half mile--in fact, I am not aware that I had any. But after a time
I drew nearer to Hawkins, and at last came within thirty feet of the
galloping Maud.
Hawkins' face was white and set, he bounced painfully up and down,
risking his neck at every bounce, but one hand kept a death-like grip on
the lever of the horse-brake.
“Jump!” I screamed. “Throw yourself off!”
Hawkins regarded me with much the expression the early Christians must
have worn when conducted into the arena.
“No,” he shouted. “It's”--bump--“it's all right. It'll”--bump--“work in
a minute.”
“No, it won't! Jump, for Heaven's sake, jump!”
I think that Hawkins had framed a reply, but just then a particularly
hard bump appeared to knock the breath out of his body. He took a better
grip on the bridle and said no more.
I hardly knew what to do. Every minute brought us nearer to the town,
where traffic is rather heavy all day.
Up to now we had had a clear track, but in another five minutes a
collision would be almost as inevitable as the sunset.
I endeavored to recall the “First Aid to the Injured” treatment for
fractured skulls and broken backs, and I thanked goodness that there
would be only one auto to complete the mangling of Hawkins' remains,
should they drop into the road after the smash.
Would there? I glanced backward and gasped. Others had joined the
pursuit, and I was merely the vanguard of a procession.
Twenty feet to the rear loomed the black muzzle of Enos Jackson's
trotter, with Jackson in his little road-cart. Behind him, three
bicyclists filled up the gap between the road-cart and Dr. Brotherton's
buggy.
I felt a little better at seeing Brotherton there. He set my hired man's
leg two years ago, and made a splendid job.
There was more of the cavalcade behind Brotherton, although the dust
revealed only glimpses of it; but I had seen enough to realize that if
Hawkins' brake did work, and Hawkins' mare stopped suddenly, there was
going to be a piled-up mass of men and things in the road that for sheer
mixed-up-edness would pale the average freight wreck.
Maud maintained her pace, and I did my best to keep up.
By this time I could see the reason for her mad flight. When the
explosion, or whatever it was, took place in the brake machinery,
a jagged piece of brass had been forced into her side, and there it
remained, stabbing the poor old beast with conscientious regularity at
every leap.
I was still trying to devise some way of pulling loose the goad and
persuading Maud to slow down when we entered town.
At first the houses whizzed past at intervals of two or three seconds;
but it seemed hardly half a minute before we came in sight of the square
and the court house. We were creating quite an excitement, too. People
screamed frantically at us from porches and windows and the sidewalk.
Occasionally a man would spring into the road to stop Maud, think better
of it, and spring out again.
One misguided individual hurled a fence-rail across the path. It didn't
worry Maud in the slightest, for she happened to be all in the air while
passing over that particular point, but when the auto went over the rail
it nearly jarred out my teeth.
Another fellow pranced up, waving a many-looped rope over his head. I
think Maud must have transfixed him with her fiery eye, for before he
could throw it his nerve failed and he scuttled back to safety.
Those who had teams hitched in the square were hurrying them out of
danger, and when we whirled by the court-house only one buggy remained
in the road.
That buggy belonged to Burkett, the constable. The town pays Burkett a
percentage on the amount of work he does, and Burkett is keen on looking
up new business.
“Stop, there!” he shouted, as we came up. “Stop!”
Nobody stopped.
“Stop, or I'll arrest the whole danged lot of ye fer fast drivin'!”
roared Burkett, gathering up reins and whip.
And with that he dashed into the place behind Enos Jackson and crowded
the bicyclists to the side of the road.
Our county town is a small one, and at the pace set by Maud it didn't
take us long to reach the far side and sweep out on the highway which
leads, eventually, to Boston.
I began to wonder dimly whether Maud's wind and my water and gasolene
would carry us to the Hub, and, if so, what would happen when we had
passed through the city.
Just beyond Boston, you know, is the Atlantic Ocean.
At this point in my meditations we started down the slope to the big
creamery.
The building is located to the right of the road. On the left, a rather
steep grassy embankment drops perhaps thirty feet to the little river.
On this beautiful sunny afternoon, the creamery's milk cans, something
like a hundred in number, were airing by the roadside, just on the edge
of the embankment; and as we thundered down I smiled grimly to think of
the attractive little frill Maud might add to her performance by kicking
a dozen or two of the milk cans into the river as she passed.
Maud, however, as she approached the cans, kept fairly in the middle of
the road--and stopped!
Heavens! She stopped so short that I gasped for breath. All in a
twinkling the steel rods dropped into position beside her legs, the
cuffs snapped, and the Hawkins Horse-brake had worked at last!
Poor old Maud! She slid a few yards with rigid limbs, squealing in
terror, and then crashed to the ground like an overturned toy horse.
Hawkins shot off into space, and at the moment I didn't care greatly
where he landed. I was vaguely conscious that he collided head-on with
the row of milk-cans, but my main anxiety was to shut off my power, set
the brake, point the auto into the ditch, and jump.
And I did it all in about one second.
After the jump, my recollection grows hazy. I know that one of my feet
landed in an open milk-can, and that I grabbed wildly at several others.
Then the cans and I toppled headlong over the embankment and went down,
down, down, while, fainter and fainter, I could hear something like:
“Whoa! Whoa! Gol darn ye! Ow! Stop that hoss! Bang! Rattle! Rattle!
Bang! Whoa! Stop, can't ye?”
Then a peculiarly unyielding milk-can landed on my head and I seemed to
float away.
I have reason to believe that I sat up about two minutes later. The
crash was over and peace had settled once more upon the face of nature.
From far away came the sound of galloping hoofs, belonging, no doubt, to
some of the horses who had participated in the late excitement.
The embankment was strewn with men and milk-cans, chiefly the latter. No
one seemed to be wholly dead, although one or two looked pretty near it.
A few feet away, Burkett, the constable, was having a convulsion in his
vain endeavour to extricate his cranium from a milk-can. The sounds that
issued from that can made me blush.
Jackson was sitting up and staring dully at the river, while Dr.
Brotherton, with his frock-coat split to the collar, was fishing
fragments of his medicine case out of another can.
Others of the erstwhile procession were distributed about the embankment
in various conditions, but, as I have said, nobody seemed to have parted
company with the vital spark.
Hawkins alone was invisible, and as I struggled to my feet this fact
puzzled me considerably.
A pile of milk-cans balanced on the river's edge, and on the chance
of finding the inventor's remains, I tipped them into the stream.
Underneath, stretched on the cold, unsympathetic ground, his feet
dabbling idly in the water, his clothes in a hundred shreds, a great
lump on his brow, was Hawkins, stunned and bleeding!
As I turned to summon Brotherton, Hawkins opened his eyes.
I am not one to cherish a grudge. I felt that Hawkins' invention had
been its own terrible punishment. So I helped him to his feet as gently
as possible, and waited for apologetic utterances.
“You see, Griggs,” began Hawkins, uncertainly--“you see, the--the
ratchet on the big wheel--stuck. I'll put a new--a new ratchet there,
and oil--lots of oil--on the--the----”
“That's enough, Hawkins,” I said.
“Come home.”
“Yes, but don't you see,” he groaned, holding fast to his battered
skull as I helped him back to the road, “if I get that one little point
perfected--it--it will revol----”
“Let it!” I snapped. “Sit here until I see what's left of my
automobile.”
Ten minutes later, Patrick having appeared to take charge of Maud S.,
Hawkins and I were making our homeward way in the runabout, which had
mercifully been spared.
Something in my face must have forbidden conversation, for Hawkins
wrapped the soiled fragments of his raiment about him in offended
dignity, and was silent on the subject of horse-brake.
Nor have I ever heard of the thing since. Possibly Mrs. Hawkins
succeeded in demonstrating the fallacy of the whole horse-brake theory;
in fact, from the expression on her face when we reached the house, I am
inclined to think that she did.
Mrs. Hawkins can be strong-minded on occasion, and her tongue is in no
way inadequate to the needs of her mind. At any rate, a friend of mine
in the patent office, whom I asked about the matter some time ago,
tells, me that the Hawkins Horse-brake has never been patented, so that
I presume the invention is in its grave. As a public spirited citizen, I
venture to add that this is a blessing.