Mr. Ransome had before him a prescription, a medicine bottle, a large bottle of distilled water, two measuring-glasses, and a smaller bottle half full of a pale-amber liquid. He had been standing motionless, staring at these objects with a peculiar and intent solemnity. Now, as if challenged and challenging, he drew the smaller measuring-glass toward him with one hand. He held it to the light and moved his finger nail slowly along the middle measuring line. Then with two hands that trembled he poured into it a part of the infusion. The liquid went tink-tinkling in a succession of little jerks. He held it to the light; it rose a good inch above the line he had marked. He shook his head at it slowly, with an air of admonition and reproof, and poured it back into the bottle. This process he repeated seven times, always with the same solemn intentness, the same reproving and admonitory air. At his seventh failure he turned with the dignity of a man overmastered by outrageous circumstance. "Mercier not in?" he asked, sternly. (You would have said it was his son Randall that he admonished and reproved.) "Not yet," said Ranny. And as he said it he possessed himself very gently of the measuring-glass and bottle. (Mr. Ransome affected not to notice this man[oe]uver.) "What is it?" "Tincture of strophanthus, sodae bicarb., and spirits of chloroform. Just you mind how you handle it." "Right-O!" said Ranny. The chemist's small, iron-gray eyes were fixed on him with severity and resentment. "How much?" said Ranny. "Up to three." Mr. Ransome's head was steadier than his hand. Ranny poured the dose. "Ac-acqua distillata--to eight ounces," said Mr. Ransome, disjointedly, but with an extreme incision. Ranny poured again, and decanted the medicine into its bottle through a funnel, corked it, tied on the capsule, labeled, addressed, wrapped, and sealed it. The long-drawn, subtle corners of Ranny's eyes and mouth were lifted in that irrepressible smile of his, while Mr. Ransome asserted his pharmaceutical dignity by acrimonious comment. "_Now_ then! You might have club feet instead of hands. Tha's right--mess the sealin'-wax, waste the string, spoil anything you haven't got to pay for. That'll do." Mr. Ransome took the parcel from his son's hand, turned it round and round under the gaslight, laid it down, and dismissed it with a flick as of contempt for his incompetence. At that Ranny gave way and giggled. Ten minutes later he and his mother stood in the doorway of the back parlor and watched the master's superb and solitary ascent to his bedroom on the first floor back. It was then that Ranny; still smiling, delivered his innermost opinion. "Queer old Humming-bird. Ain't he, Mar?" His mother shook her head at him. "Oh, Ranny," she said, "you shouldn't speak so disrespectful of your father." But she kissed him for it, all the same. CHAPTER V That was how they kept it up together.