The Hawkins Cloud-Climber

Chapter I. On To Washington—and Beyond!

HOW in the name of common sense even such a government as the United States could have kept it out of the papers is several notches beyond the grasp of my feeble .22-caliber mentality. Considering the press notices we did get—but they tell me that it is coming out, anyhow, and an authentic account were better given beforehand.

Therefore, consider Exhibit A:

Come at once. Wire train. Meet you at Station. Trouble. Hawkins.

This, as one may possibly guess, was a telegram.

It reached me at the office in the middle of the morning, and somehow it set me to thinking with real earnestness.

When Hawkins will acknowledge that trouble exists, it should mean at least that his skull has been fractured or three or four of his legs broken. And he was down there in Washington alone, and as a matter of fact there was nothing to keep me at the office, and my wife was out of town and even the cook had deserted, and as another matter of fact I have always liked Washington, even in the warm, late fall, and—

Exhibit B:

Coming. Arrive 8.20. Griggs.

I keep a grip at the office, neatly packed for emergency trips now and then, and inspection showed that there was enough clean linen to save me from a vagrancy charge, for a day or two at least. The blue shirt might have been a trifle more crisp and the raincoat was undeniably wrinkled, but the outfit would answer.

All that remained was to telephone for a seat and wait for train-time.

Muller, my aged bookkeeper, attended to that. He returned with the glad tidings that a seat was reserved. And then Muller, who has been with me for some years and takes occasional liberties in the way of familiarity, read the telegram on the desk and proceeded to throw the first pail of icy water on the blanket.

“Are you going down to see Mr. Hawkins?” he asked flatly.

“Yes.”

“Is Mr. Hawkins in trouble, sir?”

“He says so.”

“Then—excuse me, Mr. Griggs—but why do you want to mix up in it? Ain't that man made trouble enough for you already, sir? Hasn't he—”

I froze Muller with a look. I am not much good on the freezing, but Muller is easy to freeze. He gave me a last, compassionate glance and sighed:

“Yes, sir, The seat is on the shady side of the car, sir. Good-by, sir!”

Why cannot—well, comparative—youth give ear to the sage sayings of aged lips? I don't know, personally. I wish I did know. If I had only known that particular morning, I should have taken a train for Montreal, smashed a few endows, been arrested under an assumed name and disappeared for the coming week.

The trip to Washington rarely maddens one with exciting events.

This journey was fast, easy, and distinctly lazy. I dozed through the late afternoon and early evening, until the sable gentleman in the snowy coat announced the fact that any person wishing to put down his dollar could gamble it on the virtues of the capable cook in the dining-car.

Thereafter, a sleepy cigar in the smoking compartment bridged over Baltimore and made things even more comfortable—and through the black night the train pulled into the Capital City,

I am bound to confess that I was rather grateful to Hawkins for the relax of the journey. His trouble discovered and adjusted, I would settle down in one of the big hotels and snore placidly through the night, and some time to-morrow I could start back for New York, probably with the consciousness of some good deed done, and—

“Griggs!” shouted a familiar voice, as a hand came down upon my shoulder and sent me careening against the porter.

“Hawkins!” I gasped.

“Well, I congratulate you on your good sense this time, at least!” the inventor chortled blissfully. “I was half afraid you'd get some fool notion in your head and back out.”

“Back out of what?”

“Back out of the only similar chance your poor little life will ever see!” said Hawkins lucidly, as he linked his arm through mine. “Come, Griggs, come! We haven't any time to spare, as it is.”

“To spare for what?”

“For what's coming to you! Oh, don't drag back like that! The machine is outside the station. I came down here in it—and we'll have to get out of town, and—” we were outside now—“John! Crank her up! We haven't any time to waste.”

“But why the dickens do we want to get out of town?” I demanded suddenly. “Are you having trouble with the police, Hawkins?”

“I—”

“Then, what is the matter?”

“There isn't anything the matter!” smiled Hawkins. “That was just a little bluff to get you down here! Climb in.”

“But I have to get to a hotel first and—”

“You'll go to no hotel this night, sonny!” Hawkins remarked. “You'll have something a trifle better than any hotel in this town or any other. Climb in!”

One last second of hesitation and—I climbed in.

Hawkins slammed the door, and the chauffeur seemed able to attend to the rest.

The inventor settled back with a cigar. The car itself whirled into Pennsylvania Avenue and whizzed up the broad asphalt.

And presently the White House was only a memory and we were still going—and I said:

“Hawkins!”

“Well?”

“Where in thunder are we bound?”

“Into the great State of Virginia, for a start.”

“But I'll have to be back in New York to-morrow!”

“You'll be in New York to-morrow a darned sight earlier than ever you expect,” the inventor replied, in rather sinister fashion.

“Why?”

“Because!” said Hawkins with a chuckle. “Be tranquil, Griggs! You're going to see something that—well, hasn't happened before! You'll be able, in a week, to get one of your idiot spells and write it up for a magazine, thereby acquiring about five thousand dollars, at the least. You're—”

“Well, I haven't any such ambitions,” I told him warmly. “I came down here to help you out of whatever trouble you were in, and I haven't the time—”

At which I leaned forward and yelled:

“Stop here, John!”

John switched a few dozen levers and the car slowed down.

“Drive ahead, John!” bawled Hawkins. “He's not responsible! Hustle!”

Evidently the chauffeur's salary was paid up to date. He drove on, and almost wildly.

We swirled across a bridge and struck a black country road, down which the big white pencils of light seemed to be cutting a path. And I turned and roared into Hawkins's ear:

“Have him stop or turn around! I want to go back!”

“Dry up!” said the inventor courteously.

“I won't! I want to get to a hotel in Washington and—”

“Can it, Griggs! Can it!” said Hawkins, even more elegantly.

And there I lost what little temper remained, and shrieked:

“If you don't have that man pull up until I can escape—”

Hawkins is not very light in weight nowadays. I am. Therefore, when Hawkins essays to sit upon my lap, I am practically put to stay put.

He did it this time. He merely switched over and landed on me solid, and with a long, low chuckle he said:

“You dot-ratted imbecile! Do you suppose I brought you down here for anything I'm going to allow you to miss? Don't be a clown, Griggs! Sit still! We'll be out there in an hour at the outside, and then—”

And then— That was precisely what I was thinking at the time. It was just the “and then” which made me so strenuously anxious to look little old Washington in the eyes again and have a New York paper and a smoke and so on, with possibly a bite to eat before going to bed.

“Where is 'and then?' I asked faintly.

“It's right where the Almighty put it, two or three years before the entire world was staggered by the news of your birth, Griggs,” Hawkins roared, as his nice little driver ran the speed up to about seventy miles and the wind whistled so fiercely that my cigar started back toward Washington on its own account.

“But—”

An illuminated church-clock popped into sight and disappeared behind.

Hawkins leaned forward angrily with a bellowed:

“What the dickens is the matter? Can't you get any speed out of this to-night, John?”

John glared back malevolently in the moonlight. Then he went to work putting his malevolence into practise. He merely shot the speed to perhaps two hundred miles an hour and roared on, and I cuddled down in a neat heap on the floor of the car.

That ride lasted, I presume, an hour.

It seemed a year at least. The moon did a fancy dream waltz up in the skies above and the stars seemed to be playing tag with each other, and if there was a bump or a stone in the roads which John missed, the darkness alone could excuse the fact.

We climbed hills by merely sailing over the ridges and landing with a resounding smash on the other side. We took level stretches without the formality of running on the ground more than one yard out of six. Somewhere or other, we struck a buggy and sent it hurtling into the circumambient atmosphere, horse and all.

But John was getting his speed, all night enough, and just as consciousness seemed to be leaving me, Hawkins cried out:

“Well, we're here, thank goodness!”

Possibly they slid me out of the automobile. At all events, I recall standing up and murmuring:

“Where's 'here,' Hawkins?”

“Here is the place you've reached at last,” replied the inventor facetiously. “Just cast that eye of yours around—and if you've ever seen anything like it before, I'll eat my hat!”

Hawkins's hat is still in perfect wearing condition.

I never had. I looked around tremulously and I saw what, beyond question, few people have ever looked upon before or since.

Apparently, we were on an utterly uncultivated stretch of plain, hedged in by woods. To the left were woods, to the right and the foreground. were woods, but right in the middle of the picture lay the interesting part.

There were perhaps ten small tents, most of them illuminated within.

There were four tents of a size that makes the word “tremendous” look small and futile. There was another, some two hundred feet long, which must have cost somebody-*a good four thousand dollars at the least.

I stared at it long and hard, and then:

“What the deuce is it, Hawkins?” I inquired.

“Don't worry about it to-night, Griggs,” said Hawkins. “You'll see to-morrow, my boy,” He chuckled. “Come on to bed, Griggs. I've reserved a cot for you in my own tent.”

“But what is it all about? What is the big tent?” I persisted. “What does it all mean, anyway?”

“It means that finally the United States government has had the good sense to get together with me and put up a few hundred thousand dollars against my few hundred thousand. It's the first time in history that Congress has shown any real sense and—bosh! Come on, if you want to!”

He walked straight for the big tent and I tagged sadly behind. Somewhere or other, an engine was humming. Hawkins took from his pocket a whistle and blew it shrilly. Then he lifted a flap and we walked into the pitchiness of the huge tent.

And then he snapped down a switch and a flood of light appeared.

The flood of light was not the only thing that appeared though.

Twenty feet above us was a shining cylinder of what looked like polished steel, at the very least a good fifty yards long. Below it, suspended by steel cables, was what resembled the cabin of a good-sized cruising yacht. There were windows and doors and walls of polished woodwork and—

And just then Hawkins snapped the switch again and the lights went out, and the inventor piloted me toward the outer air.

“Hawkins,” I said faintly, “what is it?”

The inventor laughed in his gentle, diabolical way,

“Alta!” he said.

“Which?”

“Alta!”

“And what in—”

“'Alta' is the name of the ship,” said Hawkins serenely. “'Alta' is the name of the flag-ship of the fleet.”

And just there I, too, reached the shrieking stage and cried:

“What fleet?”

The inventor looked at me pityingly in the radiant moonlight for a second or two.

“The fleet of Hawkins Cloud-Climbers, of course,” he said. “Oh, give it up, Griggs. You can't understand it. Come on to bed.”

Chapter II. Going Up

IT seems better to skim, as it were, over that night.

We reached the sleeping-tent. There were three cots inside and there was no light. Therefore we walked in charily—and I slid gently over what seemed to be an occupied cot, sprawled gracefully on a board flooring beyond and arose to hear:

“Vot der deffel—”

“It's all right, count!” Hawkins cried. “Don't get up! It was—just an accident—unavoidable—I'm sure—say! wait till I find that—ah!”

Three incandescents blazed up abruptly.

Also appeared a young German gentleman of perhaps twenty-five, sitting up in his cot with a scowl, a rumpled head, and a neat little “Schnurrbartbinder” strapped around his countenance to preserve the strictly proper upturn of the ends of his mustache.

“Der dickens! Vot it is, so in sleep shall a man—”

“Now, count!” said Hawkins, rather shakily.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight—” I began dazedly.

“Shut up, you confounded ass!” yelled Hawkins. Then he cleared his throat and said more calmly: “Von Moltz, this is Mr. Griggs, of New York, who has come to join us.”

The obviously German gentleman stared at me, as I advanced with outstretched hand.

“Oh—charmed!” he said, as he dived under the covers, and turned his head away.

Hawkins tapped me on the shoulder.

“Official representative of the German government!” he whispered. “Big money for me, Griggs, if he likes—what's coming. But he's in a bad humor to-night. Light disturbs him—and I've got to keep solid with him and—that's your bed, over there; the one with your grip beside it. You don't mind going to bed in the dark. Feel your way over and—”

And the lights disappeared again.

Frankly, I slept.

I don't know just why, for there was cause enough for insomnia. But I managed to roll in, in that nice, chilly tent, and settle on what seemed a strictly hardwood mattress, with case-hardened springless springs beneath it and warmthless covers over it.

But slumber came graciously and wafted me into a region filled with inventors garbed as the demons of Hades itself. The chief seemed to be Hawkins, with a beautiful pair of red horns and a long, arrow-pointed red tail which wagged incessantly, and he was bossing the riveting of a steel cylinder a mile long and throwing around white-hot rivets with his bard hands and—

“Did you sleep well?” demanded Hawkins, as he grabbed my rheumatic shoulder and shook hard—being careful to drive his thumb into the sorest spot. “Wake up, Griggs! Breakfast's ready!”

I rose swiftly. Across the tent, Mr. Von Moltz's cot was empty. Hawkins was fully dressed and saying:

“Now, Griggs! Remember yourself. Don't offend anybody, because I've gathered a bunch for this demonstration such as the world has rarely seen before, I've worked in representatives from all the big nations for the cruise.”

He licked his lips.

“Griggs,” he went on, “when this demonstration is over, I'll have made contracts that will make this man Rockefeller's income look like a bill-clerk's salary compared to mine. The Hawkins Cloud-Climber—the 'I. A.,' as they're calling it around the War Department—that means Ideal Air-ship—is going to—”

“Is it a flying machine?” I gasped. “Well, you can count me out on the trial trip, little friend. I've got a wife—”

“—to smash every preconceived notion of aerial navigation.” I glared at him, and Hawkins snapped his fingers and growled. “Oh, I wanted to surprise you with it, but I suppose I'll have to tell you beforehand, if you're going to put on that imbecile scowl and try to get away.

“This is merely the crystallized idea of all air-ship work, Griggs. I have contrived a machine which combines aeroplane and balloon—that can be propelled in the face of any. wind that ever blew, that can be sent up or down or sidewise at will, that can be provisioned and supplied with everything necessary for a full week, that will travel an easy hundred miles an hour without straining at the power plant, that can devastate a kingdom with the same ease it wipes out a navy, that can make or unmake the world, that can—”

“Well, leave out the rest of the planets, Hawkins,” I said wearily. “When you've smashed this one you'll have done enough, and I believe you're fully capable of the stunt. But as for me, if you'll lend me that machine to the nearest railroad station and—”

“Breakfast, sah!” announced a dark-complexioned voice outside the tent.

“Yes, come on to breakfast, Griggs,” echoed Hawkins, as I dived sadly into the cold wash-bowl. “If nothing more, you'll meet some respectable people.”

I came. I was hungry. I was not at all anxious just then to commune with respectable people—but, as a matter of fact, I did meet them.

After I had dressed, Hawkins escorted me to another long tent, where the bright sunshine came in through the open sides and shone upon two long tables. Possibly thirty people, in all, were eating; and Hawkins led me among them with a flood of introductory phrases and a smile that suggested the pride of the farmer who is exhibiting his prize Thanksgiving turkey on the day before the assassination.

I bowed and shook hands and smiled until my smiling apparatus began to ache; I met Baron This and Count That and Mr. and Mrs. Something Else; but, for purposes of record, the important members of the new acquaintanceship were:

Mr. and Mrs. Walford-Ebbington, who were distinctly English, and wealthy.

Count Franz von Moltz, whom I had stumbled over the previous evening.

Ivan Vilidski, who hailed from that charming suburb called Russia.

And Peter Henry Jones, representative from—well, never mind what State. His name is sufficient guaranty that we had one real Westerner aboard.

He looked the part, too. He was a trifle over seven feet in height; he wore a slouch-hat and a frock coat, and lived up to the appearance of the traditional article.

“Guy insisted on coming along,” Hawkins explained rather unpleasantly in an undertone as we approached the head of the table. “Said he was bound to see what the nation's money was being spent for, and— Sit down, Griggs!”

The breakfast was as nearly right as a real Southern cook can make it, which means that it was perfect. I cast dull care aside and ate cheerfully up to the moment when a man in overalls appeared and announced:

“Mr. Mink says everything is ready, Mr. Hawkins.”

“Is it necessary for you to break in upon a meal to state that fact, Jenkins?” Hawkins demanded from behind the better part of a fried egg.

“You can search me, sir,” said Jenkins, as he saluted and disappeared.

There was a sort of circular giggle. Hawkins arose with a sauve:

“Well, if everything is ready—”

The company took to its feet and walked out slowly to the open, sunlit plain.

And here—right here—mere description takes on an anemic tinge.

Out on that square half-mile were, first of all, five of the most immense steel cylinders ever constructed. Four of them were possibly seventy-five feet long. Number Five I recognized as the Alta. They were chained to the ground, and around each flitted a little army of workmen.

In the far distance cavalrymen rode along slowly, evidently on sentinel duty. In the near foreground, Hawkins's select company of aristocrats were struggling into wraps and chattering excitedly. And as I gasped aloud, Hawkins said:

“Can you beat it, Griggs? Have you eyer seen it beaten? Twenty-eight of the world's best-known citizens ascend to-day in the Hawkins Cloud-Climbers!”

“And do you mean to tell me that the government is putting up for this festival?” I demanded.

“In just this way,” replied the inventor with marked dignity. “I am to give the demonstration. As soon as the Hawkins Cloud-Climber has shown what it can do, I receive in cash the cost of this whole affair—and I can tell you I've put a dollar or two into it. The whole thing has been conducted with the most absolute secrecy out here. I've got half a troop of cavalry to keep people away. I've engaged an engineer and a pilot for each cloud-climber, and trained them. I've made tentative contracts with half a dozen nations. To-day, we're just going to take a three-hundred-mile run and back, landing in Washington in the afternoon, I'll run you up to New York, if you like. To-morrow the world— What is it, Jenkins?” he ended more calmly.

“They're ready to start Number One, sir!”

“All right! I'll be right there. You stay here, Griggs!”

He hurried away after the mechanic—and I looked after him flitting across that grassy plain; and looked at the tents; and looked at the air-ships swinging on their anchor chains, and the crowd of people; and looked at the Alta; and finally wondered when the sleeping-powder would work off, and when I was due to wake up.

After that, I walked over to the Alta and stared upward in childish fashion. There was a dangling ladder of steel cable; and in the insanity of the moment I climbed up.

I landed on a deck some eight feet wide, beside the cabin-wall, and about sixty feet long. I steadied myself and strolled along.

There were wooden walls and glass windows that denoted rooms; and forward there was a strong smell of gasoline and the faint humming of a motor—and before me stood Mr. Mink, with a countenance as sweet and amiable as the concentrated juice of the garden variety of lemon.

“Ain't the Main Squeeze due here yet?” he asked delicately.

“Mr. Hawkins will doubtless be here presently,” I said.

“Well—gee! There goes the first!” exclaimed the master mechanic as he ducked to look.

Surely enough, Number One, in the far distance, had suddenly soared skyward gracefully and easily as any feathered bird. For the moment my estimation of Hawkins's inventive abilities rose about one hundred points. The thing went into the air—and Mink was saying:

“All to the good, if she'll hold together.”

“Won't she?”

“Don't ask me, mister. The way she's built—the way the rest of 'em are built—she oughter blow to pieces in about two hours.”

“And how about this one?”

“This here? Oh—I guess this'll hold up for a couple o' hours,” said Mr. Mink cheerily. “The only thing about this one is the size o' that tank o' gas an'— Aw! What do we care? You're insured, ain't you?”

He sauntered away, whistling a happy little tune, and the engine hummed more loudly as I put the wrong end of the cigar in my mouth and stared wildly out on the lovely world that had been supporting me since birth, and—

“That's right,” cried Hawkins, as he appeared suddenly and dragged some ninety-five pounds of scared femininity after him bodily. “There, Mrs. Westerling! Perfectly safe, you see.'

“Yes, but—”

“And here comes your esteemed husband, too,” the inventor warbled as two hundred and ninety-five pounds of perspiring man rolled pantingly to the edge. “Neat, unique, and easy, eh?”

“Yes, it's just about as easy as shinning up a brick wall in a diver's suit,” the gentleman responded. “What the deuce did I ever come on this fool jaunt for, anyhow? If it wasn't for the chance of landing your confounded steel contracts from the governments, Hawkins—”

“Well, that's just what you came for, Westerling,” the inventor answered frostily. “You—ah! Count von Moltz! I see that Jenkins steered you up straight.”

“Yah!” responded that gentleman crisply as he removed his hat, bowed to Mrs. Westerling, and stalked forward in strict military fashion. Westerling stared after him as he mopped his brow, with:

“That cuss's middle name must be 'Von Air-ship,' Hawkins,” he observed facetiously. “Was he born and reared on one, Hawkins?”

The inventor was busy just then.

Mrs. Walford-Ebbington had come within three rounds of the top of the ladder, and essayed a shrieking fit; and Hawkins, prone on his stomach, was tugging at her hands, while Mr. Walford-Ebbington below called:

“Cahn't you draw her aboard, Mr. Hawkins? Cahn't you devise a way—”

“I'm trying my best,” Hawkins panted. “I'm—there!”

Mrs. Walford-Ebbington was there. Her husband followed. After him came swiftly Mr. Vilidski. And with a considerable amount of agility the huge form of Peter Henry Jones, Representative from—well, you know the, Western State—clambered over the edge and straightened up.

“Breezy here, anyway,” he announced as he took a long breath. “When do we start?”

“In about five minutes,” smiled Hawkins greasily. “I'm going to have the flag-ship leave last—the better to demonstrate the superiority of the larger type over the small type. And—there goes Number Four!”

“And we're actually going up in the air now!” exclaimed Mrs. Walford-Ebbington breathlessly. “Fahncey that!” She sniffed at a bottle of salts, with: “Is it quite safe, Mr. Hawkins?”

But Hawkins was busy. He was leaning over the rail as Jenkins climbed aboard to obliterate himself in the direction of the engine-room, and yelling:

“Cast off!”

They did just that, and they did it as if it had been rehearsed for a month. There was a sudden swaying, a twitching, a whirring of propellers.

And frankly, the sensation was simply and purely great!

Somebody must have gently loosened the earth from its fastenings, for it commenced to drop away with the speed of a bullet. Being careful not to make a sound, good old earth simply began to grow less obvious.

Trees and fields and forests appeared and diminished in size. In an incredibly little space of time, half a dozen towns put in an appearance. Then, far to the north, a patch of houses intruded itself into the panorama—and Hawkins pointed at it with a proud air of proprietorship.

“Washington,” he said. “We'll trot back there after we've had a little look at Kentucky and Ohio and so on. Now let's have a glance through the air-ship de luxe. This way, please.”

It was the “air-ship de luxe,” fast enough! We entered a corridor that suggested a private yacht so strongly that one could' almost smell the salt water. We passed into a tiny saloon; we walked on—through a miniature dining-room, capable of seating six or eight; moving onward, we glimpsed four bijou staterooms.

The pompous Mr. Walford-Ebbington walked out ahead, on our way to the engine-room, on his own account; and he stumbled over something and—whatever it was—it dropped beneath the rail and returned to Mother Earth as the gentleman gasped:

“My word!”

Mr. Walford-Ebbington was sufficiently cultured to let it go at that, after he had hopped three paces hugging one foot. The three paces took him to the engine-room door; and as he reached the entrance of that mysterious and all-important domain, Mr. Mink stepped out, less amiable than ever.

“Say, Mr. Hawkins!” he called. “We've lost sight of all the other air-ships! We're going too darned high!”

“Mink—” Hawkins began.

“We are. Look at them gages!”

Hawkins looked. Then he gasped.

“I should say we were!” he shouted, with a tremor in the shout. “Why on earth—”

“Because you told me to go straight up until you told me to stop.”

“Well, now, I tell you to go straight down until we're within fifteen hundred feet of the earth,” the inventor rasped. “Take your big wrench and undo the big valve. Let out some of the gas.”

“Give me the wrench,” said the boss engineer.

“I haven't got your wrench!” the inventor shrieked. “Why—”

“1 guess you ain't got it,” said the machinery chief. “That gent there”—meaning Walford-Ebbington—“just fell over it and kicked it overboard.”

He drew a long breath.

“And that was the only wrench that would undo that big valve,” he concluded with a deadly calm. “I think,” said Mr. Mink toughly, “that we're goin' t' butt the snout offen the man in the moon!”

Chapter III. On Earth

IT may seem a trifle out of place in one way; yet an accurate record should have its details in fairly systematized and succinct form.

Therefore follow a few clippings.

Never mind the names of the papers. Never mind the cities and towns where they were published. Never mind the exact dates or anything else. Those are things which, I understand, I am not privileged to record just now.

Let them simply stand upon the record by number, with the solitary definite assertion that they were all printed within forty-eight hours of the moment when the Alta started skyward.

To continue, then—

Number One:

Marborn Street, early this afternoon, was mildly shocked by the appearance of an air-ship, possibly two thousand feet high and traveling fast. The first material evidence came in the shape of an empty champagne bottle, which landed squarely on the head of Alderman George P. Downs, as he was entering the Triangle Building.

Mr. Downs reports that one hat and one package of court-plaster was the extent of his damage. To our reporter he said that he had already placed an order for a dirigible balloon, and asked for the services of a squad of detectives from headquarters, who will ascend shortly and endeavor to serve the owner of the air-ship, if he be aboard, with summons and complaint in a suit for $5.05 damages. Mr. Downs further stated that this suit would be merely prefatory to another for $1,000,000 for injured feelings and wounds, and that the matter would, if necessary, be carried to the Supreme Court of the United States!