, and the steam muezzins calling the faithful to work, Mr
Cowlishaw could still distinguish the tireless, monstrous sighing of the
Cauldon Bar blast furnaces. And, finally, he heard another sound. It
came from the room next to his, and, when he heard it, exhausted though
he was, exasperated though he was, he burst into laughter, so comically
did it strike him.

It was an alarm-clock going off in the next room.

And, further, when he arrived downstairs, the barmaid, sweet,
conscientious little thing, came up to him and said, "I'm so sorry, sir.
I quite forgot to tell the boots to call you!"

II

That afternoon he sat in his beautiful new surgery and waited for dental
sufferers to come to him from all quarters of the Five Towns. It needs
not to be said that nobody came. The mere fact that a new dentist has
"set up" in a district is enough to cure all the toothache for miles
around. The one martyr who might, perhaps, have paid him a visit and a
fee did not show herself. This martyr was Mrs Simeon Clowes, the
mayoress. By a curious chance, he had observed, during his short sojourn
at the Turk's Head, that the landlady thereof was obviously in pain from
her teeth, or from a particular tooth. She must certainly have informed
herself as to his name and condition, and Mr Cowlishaw thought that it
would have been a graceful act on her part to patronize him, as he had
patronized the Turk's Head. But no! Mayoresses, even the most tactful,
do not always do the right thing at the right moment.

Besides, she had doubtless gone, despite toothache, to the football
match with the Mayor, the new club being under the immediate patronage
of his Worship. All the potting world had gone to the football match.
Mr Cowlishaw would have liked to go, but it would have been madness to
quit the surgery on his opening day. So he sat and yawned, and peeped at
the crowd crowding to the match at two o'clock, and crowding back in the
gloom at four o'clock; and at a quarter past five he was reading a full
description of the carnage and the heroism in the football edition of
the _Signal_. Though Hanbridge had been defeated, it appeared from the
_Signal_ that Hanbridge was the better team, and that Rannoch, the new
Scotch centre-forward, had fought nobly for the town which had bought
him so dear.

Mr Cowlishaw was just dozing over the _Signal_ when there happened a
ring at his door. He did not precipitate himself upon the door. With
beating heart