“It’s hardly the same thing, Esther,” said Agnes.
“Well, he always had them with a sort of sauce,” Esther recalled. “Worcestershire sauce, I suppose it was.”
“It could have been some new form of deficiency treatment, of course, Ginger,” Agnes said. “I mean if your molars were soft....” But in the face of Ginger Horton’s mounting exasperation, she broke off and turned to Guy, “What do you think, Guy?”
“Bill always was up-to-the-minute,” Guy agreed. “Always onto the latest. Very progressive in school affairs, that sort of thing—oh nothing disreputable of course—but, I mean to say, as far as being onto the latest in ... dentistry techniques, well I’m certainly confident that Bill—”
“He just plopped that raw egg right into my mouth!” said Ginger shrilly. “Why I didn’t even know what it was! And that isn’t all—the instruments, and everything else there were crazy! There was some kind of wooden paddle....”
“Spatula?” prompted Guy helpfully.
“No, not a spatula! Good Heavens! A big wooden oar, about four feet long, actually leaning up against the chair.”
“Surely he didn’t use that?” said Agnes.
“But what on earth was it doing there is what I want to know?” Ginger demanded.
“Maybe Bill’s taken up boating,” Guy offered but then coughed lightly to show the lameness of it, “... never cared for it though in school as I remember. Tennis, that was Bill’s game—damn good he was too; on the varsity his last two years.”