‘No fear of that,’ he rejoined, as indignantly as a limpet might have done in answer to the same observation. ‘Why, microscopy is the most fascinating study out.—Just take a squint at _that_, now.’ I looked down the tube, but couldn’t see anything at all, and made a remark to that effect. ‘Oh, that’s because you haven’t got the focus.—_Now_, try again.’ I tried again, and saw a sort of network of red fibre. ‘I’ll bet sixpence you can’t tell me what _that_ is!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. I owned the soft impeachment. ‘That’s the maxillary gland of a rat.’ ‘Dear me!’ I said. ‘Yes. Isn’t it lovely? Here’s another.—Now, just look at that.’ (A queer granular-looking object.) ‘You don’t know what that is?’ ‘Give it up,’ I said. ‘That’s a section of the epidermis of the great toe.’ ‘Great toe!’ I exclaimed in disgust. ‘What on earth have analysts got to do with great toes?’ ‘Oh, nothing particular,’ he said airily. ‘But we like to have as much variety as possible. I should like to have a section of everything, if I could get it.—Here’s another pretty slide; that is the section of a diseased potato; and this one is a bit of a frog’s leg.’ ‘Very instructive, I daresay,’ I remarked; ‘but I hope you haven’t made me spend twenty pounds merely to improve your acquaintance with frogs’ legs and diseased potatoes. Mr Scrutin surely doesn’t analyse such things as these?’ ‘I can’t say we do much in frogs’ legs,’ he said; ‘but there are lots of things adulterated with potato. Flour and arrowroot, and butter, and cocoa, and—and—a heap of things. And the potato’s just as likely to be diseased as not. It _may_ be, anyhow, and there you are! If you don’t know what diseased potato looks like, you’re done.’ ‘A pleasant lookout,’ I replied, ‘if half-a-dozen of the commonest articles of food are habitually adulterated.’ ‘Bless you, that’s nothing,’ he replied. ‘If _that_ was all, there wouldn’t be much harm done. There are a jolly sight worse adulterations than that. In fact, pretty nearly everything’s adulterated, and some of ’em with rank poisons.’ ‘Rank poisons! That’s manslaughter!’ ‘O no; it isn’t,’ he calmly rejoined. ‘Of course, they don’t put in enough to kill you right off. And if you find something disagreeing with you, you can’t swear what it is. It _may_ be the nux vomica in the beer; but it’s just as likely to be entozoa in the water, or copper in the last bottle of pickles. However, you’re all right _now_. With an analyst in the family, at anyrate you shan’t be poisoned without knowing it. _I_’ll let you know what you are eating and drinking.—This fellow’—and he patted the microscope affectionately—‘will tell you all about that.’ * * * * *