“Well, God bless my soul!” ejaculated 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.