"In that case," said the dentist in distinctly mollified tones, "we must not be too hard on you. Tongue down, please!"
He completed his excavating and inundating operations, and, regretfully pushing away the arm of the drilling-machine, began to line his victim's mouth with some material which tasted like decomposing sponge-bags.
"Your teeth have preserved their soundness in quite an unaccountable way," he continued, with the air of a just man conscientiously endeavouring to minimise a grievance. "There is one other small hole here,"—he ran a pointed instrument well into it to prove his statement,—"but beyond that there is nothing further to find fault with."
He began to pound up a mysterious mixture in a small mortar, and ran on:—
"You must have been very careful in your diet."
"No sweets," said Hughie laconically. "And I used very often to eat my meat right off the bone. That keeps teeth white, doesn't it?"
The dentist put down the mortar with some deliberation, and glared. Anything in the shape of levity emanating from occupants of the rack jars upon a Chief Tormentor's sense of what is professionally proper. But Hughie was lying back in the chair with his mouth open and eyes shut, exhibiting no sign of humorous intention. Still, this must not occur again. The dentist looked round for a gag. He produced from somewhere a long snaky india-rubber arrangement, terminating in a hooked nozzle. This he hung over Hughie's lower ερκος οδονΤων, effectually stifling his utterance and reducing his share in the conversation to a sort of Morse Code of single gurgles and long-drawn sizzles suggestive of the emptying of a bath.
Then, taking up his mortar, he proceeded, with the air of one who is using a giant's strength magnanimously,—
"You have visited the Antipodes, perhaps?"
"Gug-gug-guggle!" proceeded from the india-rubber-lined orifice before him.