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!”