and in a voice tremulous with emotion, inquired--

"Good Lord, Doctor! what's to be done for a feller?"

"Plug and file," calmly said the Doctor.

"Plug and file what?"

"The second molar," said the Doctor; though the treacherous monster
_meant_ Bill's wallet, of course!

"What'll it cost, Doctor?" says Bill.

"Done in my very best manner, upon the new and splendid system invented
by myself, sir, and practiced upon all the crowned heads of Europe,
London, and Washington City, it will cost you three dollars."

"Does it hurt much, Doctor?" was Bill's cautious inquiry.

"Very little, indeed; it's sometimes rather agreeable, sir, than
otherwise," said the Doctor.

"Then go at it, Doctor! Here's the _dosh_," and forking over three
dollars, down sits William Whiffletree in a high-backed chair, and the
Doctor's assistant--a sturdy young Irishman--clamping Bill's head to the
back of the chair, to keep it steady, as the Doctor remarked, the latter
began to "bore and file."

"O! ah! ho-ho-hold on, _hold on!_" cries Bill, at the first _gouge_ the
Doctor gave the huge tooth.

"O! be me soul! be aizy, zur," says the Irishman, "it's mesilf as
untherstands it--_I'll howld on till yees!_"

"O--O-h-h-h!" roars Bill, as the Doctor proceeds.

"Be quiet, sir; the pain won't signify!" says the Doctor.

"Go-goo-good Lord-d-d! Ho-ho-hol-hold on!"

"O, yeez needn't be afeared of that--I'm howldin' yeez tight as a
divil!" cries Paddy, and sure enough he _was_ holding, for in vain Bill
screwed and twisted and squirmed around; Pat held him like a
cider-press.

"Let me--me--O--O--O! Everlasting creation! let me go-o-o--stop, _hold
on-n-n!_" as the Doctor bored, screwed, and plugged away at the tooth.

"All done, sir; let the patient up, Michael," says the Doctor, with a
confident twirl of his perfumed handkerchief. "There, sir--there was
science, art, elegance, and dispatch! Now, sir, your tooth is safe--your
life is safe--_you're a sound man!_"

"Sound?" echoes poor Bill, "sound? Why, you've broken my jaw into
flinders; you've set all my teeth on edge; and I've no more
feelin'--gall darn ye!--in my jaws, than if they were iron steel-traps!
You've got the wuth of your money out of my mouth, and I'm off!"

That night was one of anxiety and misery to William Whiffletree. The
disturbed _molar_ growled and twitched like mad; and, by daylight, poor
Bill's cheek was swollen up equal to a printer's buff-ball, his mouth
puckered,