“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.