Pledge, sir,” I told him, not without a certain regret.
He fortified himself with a swig from the bottle. Then took a second one.
“Open,” he said again, bending over my person. The smell of sweat and whisky was a punishment.
I opened.
He inserted yet another tool and tapped it on my tooth. Had I not been restrained, I might have leapt from the window.
“That one?” he asked, as if he had forgotten.
“Unh,” I agreed.
“Hold on.” He chose a tool that might have done for a blacksmith’s shop. It stretched my cheeks when he forced it into my mouth. I tasted metal. And rust.
He leaned his bulk against my chest, grinding my ribs with his elbow. One paw held my jaw open, while the other applied the tool.
Fastened down, the chair creaked under our weight.
“Think about something happy,” Dr. Fielding said.
Then he yanked.
Now, I am small, but strong in the chest and shoulders. I am no weakling. It remains an amazement to me that I did not topple the fellow over and rip the chair from its moorings.
He turned away to grab a rag, which he held under my mouth. Then he picked up a spittoon from the unswept floor.
“Spit out the blood,” he told me.
“Ith it out?” I gasped. I felt as though a navvy were going at my skull with a ten-pound hammer.
“Part. It broke off. Rotten through. Spit out that blood. I have to dig out the roots.”
“Tomollow,” I told him. “Do it tomollow.”
“Can’t wait. You’ll get blood poisoning, I leave that in there. Maybe gangrene.”
I tried to think of happy things. But my concentration failed me.
“Open,” he commanded. He raised a pair of implements that might as well have been a pick and a shovel.
I did my best to be manly, but did not meet success. I have been shot and stabbed and sliced. My bones have been broken and I have been burned, as well. But I do not think I ever knew such misery as I met in that dentist’s chair.
There is a place in Mr. Shakespeare’s Scottish play where the murderess says, “Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?” She might have been speaking of Abel Jones, not her victim.
Blood exploded over my clean uniform. Twas the last I had in reserve. Blood splashed over the dentist himself. Blood splashed across the floor.
“Almost done,” he assured me.
I began to feel sick and faint.
“Cut a little deeper,” he said. “Then we’ll have it.”
He did some work down deep that made me wail.
“Thought you didn’t mind pain?” he said disdainfully. “Just another minute. I need to trim away the extra meat.”
“Pleath,” I begged. Tears blurred my eyes. Cold though it was in his rooms, I was soaked with sweat.
He peered into my mouth again. Twisting my neck to find the light from the window.
“Deepest roots I ever saw,” he said.
He bent to his labors. To my shame, I bawled like a baby.
“There now,” the fellow said at last, flicking bone and flesh into a bowl. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Ith all out?”
“Have to charge you double. Complicated operation.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “Sure you don’t want to take the rest of ’em out? While you’re here?”
Speech pained me. So I shook my head. Extravagantly.
“Well, all right,” he said. “If your mind’s made up. Just sit there and rest while I put in a few stitches.”
I STAGGERED BACK toward the hotel, drenched with sweat and blood. I must have appeared as wild-eyed as a recruit after his first battle. People stared, but I barely registered their alarm. I was stunned by pain, both present and remembered. My head seemed the size of an observation balloon.
A patrol stopped me, afraid that I had been a victim of crime. It cost me painful speech to assure them that I had merely visited a dentist. The guards at the hotel stared.
But the most alarmed of them all was Mr. Barnaby, who awaited me in an armchair in the lobby. He jumped to his feet and rushed between the loiterers to assist
He fortified himself with a swig from the bottle. Then took a second one.
“Open,” he said again, bending over my person. The smell of sweat and whisky was a punishment.
I opened.
He inserted yet another tool and tapped it on my tooth. Had I not been restrained, I might have leapt from the window.
“That one?” he asked, as if he had forgotten.
“Unh,” I agreed.
“Hold on.” He chose a tool that might have done for a blacksmith’s shop. It stretched my cheeks when he forced it into my mouth. I tasted metal. And rust.
He leaned his bulk against my chest, grinding my ribs with his elbow. One paw held my jaw open, while the other applied the tool.
Fastened down, the chair creaked under our weight.
“Think about something happy,” Dr. Fielding said.
Then he yanked.
Now, I am small, but strong in the chest and shoulders. I am no weakling. It remains an amazement to me that I did not topple the fellow over and rip the chair from its moorings.
He turned away to grab a rag, which he held under my mouth. Then he picked up a spittoon from the unswept floor.
“Spit out the blood,” he told me.
“Ith it out?” I gasped. I felt as though a navvy were going at my skull with a ten-pound hammer.
“Part. It broke off. Rotten through. Spit out that blood. I have to dig out the roots.”
“Tomollow,” I told him. “Do it tomollow.”
“Can’t wait. You’ll get blood poisoning, I leave that in there. Maybe gangrene.”
I tried to think of happy things. But my concentration failed me.
“Open,” he commanded. He raised a pair of implements that might as well have been a pick and a shovel.
I did my best to be manly, but did not meet success. I have been shot and stabbed and sliced. My bones have been broken and I have been burned, as well. But I do not think I ever knew such misery as I met in that dentist’s chair.
There is a place in Mr. Shakespeare’s Scottish play where the murderess says, “Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?” She might have been speaking of Abel Jones, not her victim.
Blood exploded over my clean uniform. Twas the last I had in reserve. Blood splashed over the dentist himself. Blood splashed across the floor.
“Almost done,” he assured me.
I began to feel sick and faint.
“Cut a little deeper,” he said. “Then we’ll have it.”
He did some work down deep that made me wail.
“Thought you didn’t mind pain?” he said disdainfully. “Just another minute. I need to trim away the extra meat.”
“Pleath,” I begged. Tears blurred my eyes. Cold though it was in his rooms, I was soaked with sweat.
He peered into my mouth again. Twisting my neck to find the light from the window.
“Deepest roots I ever saw,” he said.
He bent to his labors. To my shame, I bawled like a baby.
“There now,” the fellow said at last, flicking bone and flesh into a bowl. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
“Ith all out?”
“Have to charge you double. Complicated operation.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “Sure you don’t want to take the rest of ’em out? While you’re here?”
Speech pained me. So I shook my head. Extravagantly.
“Well, all right,” he said. “If your mind’s made up. Just sit there and rest while I put in a few stitches.”
I STAGGERED BACK toward the hotel, drenched with sweat and blood. I must have appeared as wild-eyed as a recruit after his first battle. People stared, but I barely registered their alarm. I was stunned by pain, both present and remembered. My head seemed the size of an observation balloon.
A patrol stopped me, afraid that I had been a victim of crime. It cost me painful speech to assure them that I had merely visited a dentist. The guards at the hotel stared.
But the most alarmed of them all was Mr. Barnaby, who awaited me in an armchair in the lobby. He jumped to his feet and rushed between the loiterers to assist
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