At this point I lost sight of the conflict on the roof below, for, from the roof above, a balloon shot upwards, so high that only the angels could have read the message it bore. The familiar scrunching, though strangely muffled, was heard, and J., again in blouse and ink, was up and away on a little campaign of his own. This time he found six women, each with a pair of shoes at her side and her feet drawn up under her, squatting in a ring behind the cisterns, bending over a can of spirits of wine, and whispering and giggling like school-girls. "It won't go off," they giggled, and the next minute all chance of its ever going off was gone, for J. had seized the balloon and torn it to tatters. "You have destroyed our property," shrieked a venerable little old lady, thin and withered, with many wrinkles and straggling grey hair. He told her that was what he had intended to do. "But it cost ten shillings," she squeaked in a tremor of rage, and with an attempt at dignity, but it is as hard to be dignified, as Corporal Trim found it to be respectful, when one is sitting squat upon the ground. A younger woman, golden-haired, in big hat and feathers, whom the others called Duchess, demanded "Who are you anyhow?" And when I consider his costume and his inkiness I wonder he had not been asked it long before. "You can go downstairs and find out," he said, "but down you go!" There was a moment's visible embarrassment, and they drew their stocking feet closer up under them. J., in whom they had left some few shreds of the politeness which he, as a true American, believes is woman's due, considerately looked the other way. As soon as they were able to rise up in their shoes, they altogether lost their heads. The Housekeeper and the Agent, summoned in the mean time, were waiting as they began to crawl down the straight precipitous ladder from the roof. In an agony of apprehension, the women clutched their skirts tight about them, protesting and scolding the while. The little old lady tried to escape into our chambers, one or two stood at the top of the stairs, cutting off all approach, the others would not budge from our narrow landing. A telegraph boy and a man with a parcel endeavoured to get past them and up to us, but they would not give way an inch. Finally in despair, J. gently collected them and pushed them down the stairs towards their own door. "We will have you arrested for assault!" the little old lady shrieked. "We charge you with assault and battery," the golden-haired lady re-echoed from below. And we heard no more, for at last, with a sigh of relief, J. could get to our door and shut out the still ascending uproar.