“Can you tell me where Mr. Conway, the dentist, lives?”
The chemist, who knew perfectly well, scratched his ear and seemed to reflect. He drew teeth himself, and was not disposed to furnish a rival with a patient if he could help it.
“I know the name, sir, and——might I ask if you want anything done to your teeth.”
“No, I merely wish to know where Mr. Conway lives.”
“It’s not for me to speak ill of a brother practitioner, and as I shan’t mention names, no harm can be done,” said the chemist, with his eye on Holdsworth’s mouth; “but I do say that it’s a pity people should start in a business, requiring as much skill as the highest branches of surgery, without knowing the difference between an eye and a wisdom tooth, and drinking to that degree that their hands tremble like the windows of a coach in full tear.”
“Does Mr. Conway drink?”
“I name no names,” replied the chemist, assuming an injured expression of face. “I should be sorry to take away any man’s character, not to speak of the bread out of his mouth, though there are some people not quite so particular as me in that matter, and will start lies which should make ’em afraid to go to bed. All that I say is, that if I had a toothache, and wanted to get my jaw broke and my gum tore out, I’d go to a certain person livin’ not a day’s walk from this shop, and ask him to look at my tooth.”
Saying which he nodded vigorously, and, taking up a bottle, began to mould a piece of blue paper over the cork.
“Where does this Mr. Conway live?” inquired Holdsworth, who judged that there might be a good deal more of professional animus than truth in the chemist’s observations.