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Updated: June 17, 2025
She obediently extended it to dimensions which must be described as august, at the same time pointing with her gloved and chubby finger to a particular part of it. "Yes, yes," murmured Mr Cowlishaw, assuming a tranquillity which he did not feel. This was the first time that he had ever looked into the mouth of a Mayoress, and the prospect troubled him.
Mr Rannoch was himself a professional. "Oh, well," he said sarcastically, "if you're one of those amateurs " "I'll put you the job in as low as possible," said Mr Cowlishaw, persuasively. But Scotchmen are not to be persuaded like that. Mr Rannoch wrapped up his teeth and left. What finally happened to those teeth Mr Cowlishaw never knew.
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.
"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.
The noise veritably boomed in Mr Cowlishaw's ears. "Oh! That!" said the man at length. "That's th' blast furnaces at Cauldon Bar Ironworks. Never heard that afore, sir? Why, it's like that every night. Now you mention it, I do hear it! It's a good couple o' miles off, though, that is!" Mr Cowlishaw closed his door.
"I really couldn't say," he lied. "Very many." "Because," she said, "you don't look as if you could say 'Bo! to a goose." He observed a gleam in her eye. "I think I can say 'Bo! to a goose," he said. She laughed. "Don't fancy, Mr Cowlishaw, that if I laugh I'm not in the most horrible pain. I am. When I tell you I couldn't go with Mr Clowes to the match "
Mr Cowlishaw aged twenty-four, a fair-haired bachelor with a weak moustache had bought the practice of the retired Mr Rapper, a dentist of the very old school. He was not a native of the Five Towns. He came from St Albans, and had done the deal through an advertisement in the Dentists' Guardian, a weekly journal full of exciting interest to dentists.
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. "Yes," said Mr Cowlishaw, with a dry inflection. "I saw that they were upper incisors. How did this come about? An accident, I suppose?" "Well," said the man, "you may call it an accident; I don't.
Tens of thousands would gaze spellbound for hours at those relics of their idol, and every gazer would inevitably be familiarized with the name and address of Mr Cowlishaw, and with the fact that Mr Cowlishaw was dentist-in-chief to the heroical Rannoch. Unfortunately, in dentistry there is etiquette.
This gigantic sighing continued regularly, and Mr Cowlishaw had never heard anything like it before. It banished sleep. After about two hours of its awful uncanniness, Mr Cowlishaw caught the sound of creeping footsteps in the corridor and fumbling noises. He got up again.
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