He picked up one of the women's magazines that littered the table and began to read. It was an article on Better Babies. As he read his fair boyish forehead was puckered into worried knots. He had never dreamed that babies needed so much attention. Why, Great Scott, if he did everything for Buckskin that was advised, nay, commanded, here, he should have time for nothing else! What the devil was this about orange juice at ten every morning? Buckskin ate pulp and all at any old hour. What was this about coddled eggs and grated carrots? And a thermometer in the bath? The book made him sick. Buckskin wasn't that kind of baby. He was a healthy little animal that needed no pampering. Hold on—Weight at ten months—Dangers of overweight—Buckskin was five pounds overweight! Well, well. He had known he was a whopper. How that tooth was howling now!
The dentist came to the door, smiling, and beckoned him with his head. He was a twinkling young man who looked as though doing things to teeth was the most cheery profession on earth.
"Open, please," he said, and twinkled into Derek's mouth. "Now which tooth?"
"Widdom toot," said Derek, as well as he could, through the dentist's fingers.
"Wisdom tooth, yes. A cavity that should have been attended to some time ago. But we can soon fix that. It needs treating."
"Pull it out," said Derek. "I've no time for treatments."
"Very well," agreed the dentist, still twinkling. "Gas or freezing?"
"Oh—freeze it. . . . ."
It was out. What a beastly grating noise the forceps made! The dentist was all twinkles as he held it up, gory-rooted, for Derek to see.
