Hawkins darted off up-stairs. I could hear him bounding along, two steps at a time, until he reached the top. Silence ensued for a few seconds, save for an exclamation here and there, as one or another of the guests discovered that his or her neck or ear or arm was smarting. Then the servants piled up from below. They, too, were wet and frightened. They, too, had discovered that the liquid emitted by the Hawkins Chemico-Sprinkler System bit into the human epidermis like fire. “Phat is it? Phat is it?” the cook was drearily intoning, when hurrying footsteps turned my attention once more to the stairs. Hawkins was coming down at a gallop. In his arms he carried a keg, which dribbled white powder over the beautiful carpet. “Say,” he shouted to me. “That ball didn't bust!” “It didn't?” I cried. “No! There's no marble dust in the stuff!” said the inventor, landing on the floor with a final jump and tearing into the parlor. “It's pure, diluted sulphuric acid!” “Acid!” shrieked a dozen ladies. “Yes!” groaned Hawkins, depositing his keg on the floor. “But we'll get the best of it. William, bring up a wash-tub full of water! Mary, go get all the washrags in the house! Quick!” The homely household articles arrived within a minute or two. “Now,” continued Hawkins, dumping half the keg into the tub. “That's baking soda. It'll neutralize the acid. Here, everybody. Dip a rag in here and wash off the acid. “Oh, hang propriety and decency and conventionality and all the rest of it!” he vociferated as some of the ladies, quite warrantably hung back. “Get at the acid before it gets at you! Don't you--can't you understand? It'll burn into your skin in a little while! Come on!” There was no hesitation after that. Men and women alike made frantically for the tub, dipped cloths in the liquid, and laved industriously hands and arms and cheeks that were already sore and burning. Picture the scene: a dozen women in evening dress, a dozen men in “swallow-tails,” clustered around a wash-tub there in Hawkins' parlor, working for dear life with the soaking cloths. [Illustration: “_It was just the sort of thing that could happen under Hawkins' roof, and nowhere else_.”] Ludicrous, impossible, it was just the sort of thing that could happen under Hawkins' roof and nowhere else--barring perhaps a retreat for the insane. Later the excitement subsided. The ladies, disheveled as to hair, carrying costumes whose glory had departed forever, retired to the chambers above for such further repairs as might be possible. The men, too, under William's guidance, went to draw upon Hawkins' wardrobe for clothes in which to return home. The inventor, Mr. Blodgett, and myself were left together in the drawing-room. That amiable old gentleman's coat--he is bitterly averse to undue expenditure for clothes--had turned to a pale, rotting green.