FullReads

It was, in fact, a patient. 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.

“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.

“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. 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. My name’s Rannoch; centre-forward. Ye see? Were ye at the match?”

Mr Cowlishaw understood. He had no need of further explanation; he had read it all in the Signal. And so the chief victim of Tottenham Hotspur had come to him, just him! This was luck! For Rannoch was, of course, the most celebrated man in the Five Towns, and the idol of the populace. He might have been M.P. had he chosen.

“Dear me!” Mr Cowlishaw sympathized, and he said again, pointing more firmly to the chair of chairs, “Will you sit down?”

“I had ’em all picked up,” Mr Rannoch proceeded, ignoring the suggestion. “Because a bit of a scheme came into my head. And that’s why I’ve come to you, as you’re just commencing dentist. Supposing you put these teeth on a bit of green velvet in the case in your window, with a big card to say as they’re guaranteed to be my genuine teeth, knocked out by that blighter of a Tottenham half-back, you’ll have such a crowd as was never seen around your door. All the Five Towns’ll come to see ’em. It’ll be the biggest advertisement that either you or any other dentist ever had. And you might put a little notice in the Signal saying that my teeth are on view at your premises; it would only cost ye a shilling…. I should expect ye to furnish me with new teeth for nothing, ye see.”

In his travels throughout England Mr Rannoch had lost most of his Scotch accent, but he had not lost his Scotch skill in the art and craft of trying to pay less than other folks for whatever he might happen to want.

Assuredly the idea was an idea of genius. As an advertisement it would be indeed colossal and unique. 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. And the etiquette of dentistry is as terrible, as unbending, as the etiquette of the Court of Austria.

Mr Cowlishaw knew that he could not do this thing without sinning against etiquette.

“I’m sorry I can’t fall in with your scheme,” said he, “but I can’t.”

“But, man!” protested the Scotchman, “it’s the greatest scheme that ever was.”

“Yes,” said Mr Cowlishaw, “but it would be unprofessional.”

Mr Rannoch was himself a professional. “Oh, well,” he said sarcastically, “if you’re one of those amateurs–“