Mr. Hawkins' Humorous Adventures Part 25

"No rest for the wicked," he commented to me. "Come on, Griggs, we'll have to dance."

The festivity was in full swing when we descended.

Mrs. Hawkins came over to us and remarked in low tones to her spouse:

"Now just try to make yourself agreeable, Herbert. It's not nice for you to steal away and smoke."

"I'm not smoking."

"Mr. Griggs is."

"So I am," I said, suddenly realizing the fact. "William, will you dispose of this, please?"

"Now go right in, both of you," Mrs. Hawkins began. Then she was called away.

"Griggs!" muttered Hawkins, thoughtfully tapping his forehead.

"Yes?"

"What--what the deuce did I do with my cigar?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"But I had it up-stairs. We were both smoking."

"So you did," I said. "The last I saw of it you leaned it against that fuse thing----"

"Great Scott! That's what I did!" gasped the inventor, turning white.

"Well, what of it?"

"Why, suppose the infernal thing has burned down to the fuse!" cried Hawkins hoa.r.s.ely. "Suppose it melts through the wire and sends down that top!"

"Will it start the stuff running?"

"Start it! Of course it'll start it. Gee whizz! I'm going up there now, Griggs!"

Hawkins made for the stairs. I smiled after him, for he seemed rather worked up.

I turned back to the dancers. It was a pretty scene. To the rhythm of a particularly seductive waltz, the guests were gliding about the floor.

I noted the gay colors of the ladies' gowns, the flowers, the sparkling diamonds.

And then--then I noted the frieze!

My eyes seemed instinctively to travel to that stretch of ugliness--they fastened upon the dots with a kind of fascination. And none too soon.

From one of the dots spurted forth what looked like a tiny stream of water. Another followed and another and yet another. The whole mult.i.tude of dots were raining liquid upon the dancers from all sides of the room!

The streams came from north, east, south, and west. They came from the hallway behind me--a hundred of them seemed to converge upon my devoted back. I was fairly soaked through in a second.

The panic can hardly be fancied. Men and women shrieked together in the utter amazement of the thing. They laughed aloud, some of them. Others cried out in terror.

They leaped and sprang back and forth, to this side and that, in the vain endeavor to dodge the innumerable streams. Some slipped and almost fell, carrying down others with them. And all were doused.

Then, as suddenly as it had started, the flood ceased.

"Well, G.o.d bless my soul!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mr. Blodgett, putting up a hand to wring his collar. "What in Heaven's name happened?"

"Great Caesar's ghost!" said Hawkins' voice behind me.

He had returned from his trip to the top floor extension.

"It's all right," he called with cheery indifference to the contrary sentiments of two dozen people. "There's no danger. It won't hurt you."

"But it does. It bites!" cried the girl from Jersey. "What is it? Where did it come from?"

"Yes, it does bite! It smarts awfully! By Jove! The stuff's eating me!

What is it, Hawkins? Oh, Mr. Hawkins, wherever did it come from? Why, it ran out of those dots--I saw it! What is it?" echoed from different parts of the room.

"It's only my sprinkler--my fire-extinguisher," Hawkins explained. "It went off by accident, you see. There's nothing in it to hurt you. It's perfectly neutral. It can't bite--that's imagination."

"But it does!" cried Mrs. Gordon. "It stings like acid. It actually seems to be eating my skin!"

"Bite! I should say it did!" growled Mr. Blodgett. "It's chewing my hands off--I believe it's carbolic acid. I do--I'll swear I do. No smell--but it's been deodorized. That's it--carbolic acid!"

"Carbolic fiddlesticks!" said Hawkins.

Then a puzzled expression came into his eyes. He raised one of his wet hands and tasted it--and spat violently.

"Say! Hold on! Wait a minute!" he cried.

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.