choice but to enter those awful premises. The pain was such that I could not eat, and that would never do. I hoped the fellow might offer a simple solution, allaying my fears that pulling had become necessary. Butmy hackles went up as I climbed the narrow staircase. It should have told me something that the fellow’s office was one flight above a woodworker’s shop that sold coffins.
And it should have warned me off that the fellow’s office was empty and dark. The door stood open, revealing an antechamber furnished with a church pew and two chairs. A bright-smiled beauty, recorded in a posture of innocent joy, advertised Groton’s Perfect Tooth Powder, which was GOOD FOR THE GUMS, AS WELL.
“Hello?” I tried.
That got me no reply. Twas almost excuse enough to take me right back down those stairs. But I am stubborn, if not always wise.
“Hello? Dr. Fielding?”
Again, I got no answer.
Turning to flee, I heard a response at last, from another room. Twas a groan that might have swelled from the lair of a beast disturbed in its slumbers.
A moment later, an inner door creaked open. A fellow too large for the premises, with a blacksmith’s shoulders and several days’ growth of beard, revealed himself in the foul light of the waiting room. He rubbed his eyes, yawned mightily, then fixed his eyes on my uniform, not my face.
“Hmmmph,” he said, blowing his nose in a rag that wanted a wash.
“Dr. Fielding?” I asked doubtfully. His dress evoked a bankrupt gambler, not a medical man. And his waistcoat was undone.
Yet, he had a look of strength, which is a dentist’s most important quality.
“Tooth?” he muttered.
I lowered my hand from my rebellious jaw. “It has become a bother. Mayhaps it is nothing at all.”
“Have a look,” he said. Gesturing with his thumb toward the room where he had been lurking.
I do not cut and run. I refuse to play the coward. Advancing slowly and cautiously, as if looking out for an ambush, I followed the fellow back into his surgery.
The light within was dreary. It hardly seemed sufficient for his trade.
“Sit,” he told me.
There was but a single chair in the room, of the sort employed by barbers, although this example had straps for the patient’s forearms.
I took my place and told him, “No need of belts, Dr. Fielding. I can hold my position, see.”
Oh, pride of man!
His surgical tools did not look especially clean. But Mick Tyrone’s concern with sanitary effects is not widespread in the medical professions.
“Really,” I told him, as he fixed a strap over my forearm, “that is not needful.”
“Hmmmph,” he said, pulling the belt tight. He moved to the other wrist.
“Really, I—”
“Leverage,” he grunted. As he cinched the straps I smelled him rather more closely than I wished.
“Open,” he said.
The instant I parted my lips, he shoved my head backward. Lowering his bewhiskered face as if he meant to fit it into my mouth.
“Bad,” he told me.
I wished to request some further detail, but a fat thumb jammed down my tongue and approached my windpipe.
Of a sudden, he grew loquacious. “Ought to take ’em all out. Get it over with.”
“Juth un, juth un,” I insisted.
“Take ’em all out and your breath won’t stink so bad. Get yourself a nice new set made up.”
“Juth un,” I pleaded.
“Well, which one?”
“Bat un.”
“Which one of the bad ones?”
“ Bat un.”
He shoved a metal instrument into my maw. Its tip collided noisily with a tooth.
I fear I made a sound that was unmanly.
“That one?” He stabbed the appliance into a crevice. Twas then I understood the need of those belts.
“Unh,” I assured him.
“All right. But you’re a damn fool not to take ’em all out and be done with it.”
He removed his thumb and fiddled with his tools. Then he bent to a cabinet and produced a nearly empty bottle of whisky. He held it up to the bit of light that seeped through the dirty window.
“I have taken the
And it should have warned me off that the fellow’s office was empty and dark. The door stood open, revealing an antechamber furnished with a church pew and two chairs. A bright-smiled beauty, recorded in a posture of innocent joy, advertised Groton’s Perfect Tooth Powder, which was GOOD FOR THE GUMS, AS WELL.
“Hello?” I tried.
That got me no reply. Twas almost excuse enough to take me right back down those stairs. But I am stubborn, if not always wise.
“Hello? Dr. Fielding?”
Again, I got no answer.
Turning to flee, I heard a response at last, from another room. Twas a groan that might have swelled from the lair of a beast disturbed in its slumbers.
A moment later, an inner door creaked open. A fellow too large for the premises, with a blacksmith’s shoulders and several days’ growth of beard, revealed himself in the foul light of the waiting room. He rubbed his eyes, yawned mightily, then fixed his eyes on my uniform, not my face.
“Hmmmph,” he said, blowing his nose in a rag that wanted a wash.
“Dr. Fielding?” I asked doubtfully. His dress evoked a bankrupt gambler, not a medical man. And his waistcoat was undone.
Yet, he had a look of strength, which is a dentist’s most important quality.
“Tooth?” he muttered.
I lowered my hand from my rebellious jaw. “It has become a bother. Mayhaps it is nothing at all.”
“Have a look,” he said. Gesturing with his thumb toward the room where he had been lurking.
I do not cut and run. I refuse to play the coward. Advancing slowly and cautiously, as if looking out for an ambush, I followed the fellow back into his surgery.
The light within was dreary. It hardly seemed sufficient for his trade.
“Sit,” he told me.
There was but a single chair in the room, of the sort employed by barbers, although this example had straps for the patient’s forearms.
I took my place and told him, “No need of belts, Dr. Fielding. I can hold my position, see.”
Oh, pride of man!
His surgical tools did not look especially clean. But Mick Tyrone’s concern with sanitary effects is not widespread in the medical professions.
“Really,” I told him, as he fixed a strap over my forearm, “that is not needful.”
“Hmmmph,” he said, pulling the belt tight. He moved to the other wrist.
“Really, I—”
“Leverage,” he grunted. As he cinched the straps I smelled him rather more closely than I wished.
“Open,” he said.
The instant I parted my lips, he shoved my head backward. Lowering his bewhiskered face as if he meant to fit it into my mouth.
“Bad,” he told me.
I wished to request some further detail, but a fat thumb jammed down my tongue and approached my windpipe.
Of a sudden, he grew loquacious. “Ought to take ’em all out. Get it over with.”
“Juth un, juth un,” I insisted.
“Take ’em all out and your breath won’t stink so bad. Get yourself a nice new set made up.”
“Juth un,” I pleaded.
“Well, which one?”
“Bat un.”
“Which one of the bad ones?”
“ Bat un.”
He shoved a metal instrument into my maw. Its tip collided noisily with a tooth.
I fear I made a sound that was unmanly.
“That one?” He stabbed the appliance into a crevice. Twas then I understood the need of those belts.
“Unh,” I assured him.
“All right. But you’re a damn fool not to take ’em all out and be done with it.”
He removed his thumb and fiddled with his tools. Then he bent to a cabinet and produced a nearly empty bottle of whisky. He held it up to the bit of light that seeped through the dirty window.
“I have taken the
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