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Updated: June 17, 2025
"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.
Long series of carts without springs began to jolt past under the window of Mr Cowlishaw, and then there was a regular multitudinous clacking of clogs and boots on the pavement. A little later the air was rent by first one steam-whistle, and then another, and then another, in divers tones announcing that it was six o'clock, or five minutes past, or half-past, or anything.
He was determined, though he should have to interrogate burglars and assassins, to discover the meaning of that horrible sighing. He courageously pulled his door open, and saw an aproned man with a candle marking boots with chalk, and putting them into a box. "I say!" said Mr Cowlishaw. "Beg yer pardon, sir," the man whispered.
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.
It was the oval-wheeled car, which had been to Longshaw and back. He recognized it as an old friend. He wondered whether he must expect it to pass a third time. However, it did not pass a third time. After several clocks in and out of the hotel had more or less agreed on the fact that it was one o'clock, there was a surcease of earthquakes. Mr Cowlishaw dared not hope that earthquakes were over.
"I'm getting forward with my work so as I can go to th' fut-baw match this afternoon. I hope I didn't wake ye, sir." "Look here!" said Mr Cowlishaw. "What's that appalling noise that's going on all the time?" "Noise, sir?" whispered the man, astonished. "Yes," Mr Cowlishaw insisted. "Like something breathing. Can't you hear it?" The man cocked his ears attentively.
Exactly, it was the last but twenty-three. Regularly at intervals of five minutes the Five Towns Electric Traction Company, Limited, sent one of their dreadful engines down the street, apparently with the object of disintegrating all the real property in the neighbourhood into its original bricks. At the seventeenth time Mr Cowlishaw trembled to hear a renewal of the bump-bump-bump.
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.
She probed into his character, and he felt himself pierced. "You are Mr Cowlishaw?" she began. "Good afternoon, Mrs Clowes," he replied. "Yes, I am. Can I be of service to you?" "That depends," she said. He asked her to step in, and in she stepped. "Have you had any experience in taking teeth out?" she asked in the surgery. Her hand stroked her left cheek. "Oh yes," he said eagerly.
A few seconds after the explosion there was a dropping fusillade the commercial travellers and the actors shutting their doors. Then silence. And then out of the silence the terrified Mr Cowlishaw heard arising and arising a vast and fearful breathing, as of some immense prehistoric monster in pain. At first he thought he was asleep and dreaming. But he was not.
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