chance, he had observed, during his short sojourn at the Turk’s Head, that the landlady thereof was obviously in pain from her teeth, or from a particular tooth.  She must certainly have informed herself as to his name and condition, and Mr Cowlishaw thought that it would have been a graceful act on her part to patronize him, as he had patronized the Turk’s Head.  But no!  Mayoresses, even the most tactful, do not always do the right thing at the right moment.

Besides, she had doubtless gone, despite toothache, to the football match with the Mayor, the new club being under the immediate patronage of his Worship.  All the potting world had gone to the football match.  Mr Cowlishaw would have liked to go, but it would have been madness to quit the surgery on his opening day.  So he sat and yawned, and peeped at the crowd crowding to the match at two o’clock, and crowding back in the gloom at four o’clock; and at a quarter past five he was reading a full description of the carnage and the heroism in the football edition of the Signal.  Though Hanbridge had been defeated, it appeared from the Signal that Hanbridge was the better team, and that Rannoch, the new Scotch centre-forward, had fought nobly for the town which had bought him so dear.

Mr Cowlishaw was just dozing over the Signal when there happened a ring at his door.  He did not precipitate himself upon the door.  With beating heart he retained his presence of mind, and said to himself that of course it could not possibly be a client.  Even dentists who bought a practice ready-made never had a client on their first day.  He heard the attendant answer the ring, and then he heard the attendant saying, “I’ll see, sir.”

It was, in fact, a patient.  The servant, having asked Mr Cowlishaw if Mr Cowlishaw was at liberty, introduced the patient to the Presence, and the Presence trembled.

The patient was a tall, stiff, fair man of about thirty, with a tousled head and inelegant but durable clothing.  He had a drooping moustache, which prevented Mr Cowlishaw from adding his teeth up instantly.

“Good afternoon, mister,” said the patient, abruptly.

“Good afternoon,” said Mr Cowlishaw.  “Have you ...  Can I ...”

Strange; in the dental hospital and school there had been no course of study in the art of pattering to patients!

“It’s like this,” said the patient, putting his hand in his waistcoat pocket.

“Will you kindly sit down,” said Mr Cowlishaw, turning up the gas, and pointing to the chair of chairs.

“It’s like this,” repeated the patient, doggedly.  “You see these three teeth?”

He displayed three very real teeth in a piece of reddened paper.  As a spectacle, they were decidedly not appetizing, but Mr Cowlishaw was hardened.

“Really!” said Mr Cowlishaw, impartially, gazing on them.

“They’re my teeth,” said the patient.  And thereupon he opened his mouth wide, and displayed, not without vanity, a widowed gum. “’Ont ’eeth,” he exclaimed, keeping his mouth open and omitting preliminary consonants.