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“Plug and file what?”

“The second molar,” said the Doctor; though the treacherous monster meant Bill’s wallet, of course!

“What’ll it cost, Doctor?” says Bill.

“Done in my very best manner, upon the new and splendid system invented by myself, sir, and practiced upon all the crowned heads of Europe, London, and Washington City, it will cost you three dollars.”

“Does it hurt much, Doctor?” was Bill’s cautious inquiry.

“Very little, indeed; it’s sometimes rather agreeable, sir, than otherwise,” said the Doctor.

“Then go at it, Doctor! Here’s the dosh,” and forking over three dollars, down sits William Whiffletree in a high-backed chair, and the Doctor’s assistant–a sturdy young Irishman–clamping Bill’s head to the back of the chair, to keep it steady, as the Doctor remarked, the latter began to “bore and file.”

“O! ah! ho-ho-hold on, hold on! ” cries Bill, at the first gouge the Doctor gave the huge tooth.

“O! be me soul! be aizy, zur,” says the Irishman, “it’s mesilf as untherstands it– I’ll howld on till yees! “

“O–O-h-h-h!” roars Bill, as the Doctor proceeds.

“Be quiet, sir; the pain won’t signify!” says the Doctor.

“Go-goo-good Lord-d-d! Ho-ho-hol-hold on!”

“O, yeez needn’t be afeared of that–I’m howldin’ yeez tight as a divil!” cries Paddy, and sure enough he was holding, for in vain Bill screwed and twisted and squirmed around; Pat held him like a cider-press.

“Let me–me–O–O–O! Everlasting creation! let me go-o-o–stop, hold on-n-n! ” as the Doctor bored, screwed, and plugged away at the tooth.

“All done, sir; let the patient up, Michael,” says the Doctor, with a confident twirl of his perfumed handkerchief. “There, sir–there was science, art, elegance, and dispatch! Now, sir, your tooth is safe–your life is safe– you’re a sound man! “

“Sound?” echoes poor Bill, “sound? Why, you’ve broken my jaw into flinders; you’ve set all my teeth on edge; and I’ve no more feelin’–gall darn ye!–in my jaws, than if they were iron steel-traps! You’ve got the wuth of your money out of my mouth, and I’m off!”

That night was one of anxiety and misery to William Whiffletree. The disturbed molar growled and twitched like mad; and, by daylight, poor Bill’s cheek was swollen up equal to a printer’s buff-ball, his mouth puckered, and his right eye half “bunged up.”

“Why, William,” says Ethan Rakestraw, as Bill went into the store, “what in grace ails thy face? Thee looks like an owl in an ivy-bush!”

“Been plugged and filed,” says Bill, looking cross as a meat-axe at his snickering Orthodox boss.

“Plugged and fined ? Thee hain’t been fighting, William?”

“Fined? No, I ain’t been fined or fighting, Mr. Rakestraw, but I bet I do fight that feller who gave me the tooth-ache!–O! O!” moaned poor Bill, as he clamped his swollen jaw with his hand, and went around waving his head like a plaster-of-paris mandarin.

“O! thee’s been to the dentist, eh? Got the tooth-ache? Go thee to my wife; she’ll cure thee in one minute, William; a little laudanum and cotton will soon ease thy pain.”

Mrs. Rakestraw applied the laudanum to Bill’s molar, but as it did no kind of good, old grandmother proposed a poultice; and soon poor Bill’s head and cheek were done up in mush, while he groaned and grunted and started for the store, every body gaping at his swollen countenance as though he was a rare curiosity.

“Halloo, Bill!” says old Firelock, the gunsmith, as Bill was going by his shop; “got a bag in your calabash, or got the tooth-ache?”

Bill looked daggers at old Firelock, and by a nod of his head intimated the cause of his distress.

“O, that all? Come in; I’ll stop it in a minute and a half; sit down, I’ll fix it–I’ve cured hundreds,” says Firelock.

“What are you–O-h-h, dear! what are you going to do?” says Bill, eyeing the wire, and lamp in which Firelock was heating the wire.