And certainly it made the most of the opportunity.
For three or four yards it bumped along, ramming its top-heavy nose into the carpet and seeming to become more and more enraged at its slow progress. Then it paused a moment and pawed at the floor with its whizzing wheels.
I fancied that I could upset it then, and sprang forward to do so, regardless of Hawkins.
I might have known better. I was within perhaps ten feet of the Gasowashine when another door, this time a smaller one toward the front, squeaked for a moment and then flew open. Simultaneously a bolt of something white shot forth and made for my head.
Regardless of appearances, I dropped flat to the floor and wriggled out of the danger zone.
When I arose, I realized what new disaster had taken place. It was the sixty yards of dish-towel this time!
Presumably, a roller had smashed and released the thing; at any rate, there it was, yard after yard of it, trailing after the Gasowashine as it thumped energetically toward the street door.
And that was not the worst. The end of the toweling entwined itself about one of the dining-tables and held there. The table went over, collided with the next and emptied that, too.
Then the next followed and the next, each new crash echoed by the frightened squeals of the guests, now lined up against the opposite walls.
The tenth table, with its load of crockery and glassware, had been sent to destruction before Macdougal, the manager, finally gained the dining-room. Tears rose to his eyes as he made a rapid survey of the havoc, but he kept his wits and shouted: