The moment the muscular young man starts up his motor and gives
the canary its music cue and begins pawing over his tool
collection to pick out a good sharp one, you recover. All of a
sudden you feel fine, and so does the tooth. Neither one of you
ever felt better. The fox terrier must have killed the woodchuck
and then committed suicide. You are about to mention this double
tragedy and beg the young man's pardon for causing him any trouble
and excuse yourself and go away, but just then he quits feeling of
his biceps and suddenly seizes you by your features and undoes them.
If you are where you can catch a glimpse of yourself in a mirror
you will immediately note how much the human face divine can be
made to look like an old-fashioned red brick Colonial fire place.

There are likely to be several things you would like to talk about.
You are full of thoughts seeking utterance. For one thing you want
to tell him you don't think the brand of soap he uses on his hands
is going to agree with you at all. You probably don't care
personally for the way your barber's thumb tastes either, but a
barber's thumb is Peaches Melba alongside of a dentist's. Before
you can say anything though he discovers a cavity or orifice of
some sort in the base of your tooth. It seems to give him
pleasure. Filled with intense gratification by this discovery and
fired moreover by the impetuous ardor of the chase, he grabs up a
crochet needle with a red hot stinger on the end of it and jabs it
down your tooth to a point about opposite where your suspenders
fork in the back.

You have words with him then, or at least you start to have words
with him, but he puts his knee in your chest and tells you that it
really doesn't hurt at all, but is only your imagination, and