“Your customers, eh?”
“Customers?” said the old man sharply; “who said a word about customers?”
“You did. So you deal in those things?”
“No, no; not deal in ’em. I find one sometimes—very old—very old. Been in the earth a mort o’ years.”
As he spoke he watched the doctor curiously while he inspected the specimens of osteology in the oak chest. Then, taking up a tin canister from the bottom, he gave it a shake, the contents rattling loudly, and upon opening it he displayed it half full of white, sound teeth.
“Dentists,” he said, with a grin, which showed his own two or three blackened fangs. “They uses ’em. False teeth. People thinks they’re ivory. So they are.”
“Why, Moredock, what a wicked old wretch you are,” said the doctor. “I don’t wonder you feel afraid to die.”
“Wicked? No more wicked than my neighbours, doctor. Every one’s afraid to die, and wants to live longer. Wicked! How could I save a few pounds together, to keep me out o’ the workus when I grow’s old, if I didn’t do something like this?”
“Ah, how indeed?” said the doctor, looking half-wonderingly at the strange old being.
“And my grandchild, Dalily, up at the Rectory. Man must save—must save. Besides, it’s doing good.”