"Have you seen his letter in the Times?" I asked.
"What was it?"
"Stuff and nonsense!" said Summerlee, harshly.
"Well, it's at the bottom of this oxygen business, or I am mistaken," said I.
"Stuff and nonsense!" cried Summerlee again, with quite unnecessary violence.
We had all got into a first-class smoker, and he had already lit the short and charred old brier pipe which seemed to singe the end of his long, aggressive nose.
"Friend Challenger is a clever man," said he, with great vehemence. "No one can deny it. It's a fool that denies it. Look at his hat. There's a sixty ounce brain inside it—a big engine, running smooth, and turning out clean work. Show me the engine-house and I'll tell you the size of the engine. But he is a born charlatan—you've heard me tell him so to his face—a born charlatan, with a kind of dramatic trick of jumping
