"I want a tooth out."

"Yes, sir. Will you take a seat a moment?"

The boy handed the visitor a newspaper as he spoke, and then entered the inner room. To his employer he said:

"Gent wants a tooth extracted, sir."

He had attained the word "extracted" by diligent practice. It had been hard work, but he got home with it at last.

There was a hope prevailing in the dentist's breast that in time the boy would be able to say "gentleman"; at present there were no indications of the realization of that hope beyond the word's first syllable.[Pg 8]

[Pg 8]

The dentist was wearily glancing out of the window. He looked very down in the mouth.

That is said of him metaphorically, as, actually, it is part of the business of a dentist to do that sort of thing. That is patent.

He had little to do but admire the scenery of Finsbury Circus. It is not an inspiring landscape—weariness naturally follows its frequent observation.

His brother had rooms a few doors away, and was the proprietor of a brass plate which bore four letters after his name—Arthur Lennox, M.R.C.S.

Sawyer was a divided possession. However impossible it may seem for a man to serve two masters, the boy did—it came cheaper that way.

The surgeon and dentist were not having good times.

Patience is necessary in waiting for patients, and the stock of it they had laid in when they started in their respective practices was nearly exhausted.

Overdue rent and unpaid bills stared them in the face. In addition to their kinship they were brothers in misfortune.

It was such a rare thing for a patient to call that, when the page announced one, the dentist quite started. Immediately he said:

"Show him in."[Pg 9]

[Pg 9]

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