Plote was sleeping or deaf. ’ She struggled. Then suddenly he seized a new preparation bottle that stood upon his table and contained the better part of a week’s work—a displayed dissection of a snail, beautifully done—and hurled it across the room, to smash resoundingly upon the cemented floor under the bookcase; then, without either haste or pause, he swept his arm along a shelf of re-agents and sent them to mingle with the debris on the floor. And, decently as he could, McClintock was giving the man the boot. Nothing anyone could say or do would change him. "I quarrel with no man's political opinions, but I will have my own respected!" "Eh day!" exclaimed Mrs. "You are all right?"—anxiously. This time there wasn't any doubt. CHAPTER XXVII. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him.
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