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, sodæ 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.