Then—"What have you got in this season, Mr. Rudd? Wheat?"
"I don't know. . . . Oh-h—it's awful!"
Another silence.
"Did n't think toothache so bad as that," said the man of news, airily, addressing Mother. "Never had it much myself, you see!"
He looked at Dad again; then winked slyly at Canty, and said to Dad, in an altered tone: "Whisky 's a good thing for it, old man, if you 've got any."
Nothing but a groan came from Dad, but Mother shook her head sadly in the negative.
"Any oil of tar?"
Mother brightened up. "There 's a little oil in the house," she said, "but I don't know if we've any tar. Is there, Joe—in that old drum?"
"Nurh."
The Press looked out the window. Dad commenced to butcher his gums with the pocket-knife, and threatened to put the fire out with blood and saliva.
"Let's have a look at the tooth, old man," the pressman said, approaching Dad.
Dad submitted.
"Pooh!—I'll take that out in one act I" . . . To Joe—"Got a good strong piece of string?"
