"It's like this," repeated the patient, doggedly. "You see these three
teeth?"
He displayed three very real teeth in a piece of reddened paper. As a
spectacle, they were decidedly not appetizing, but Mr Cowlishaw was
hardened.
"Really!" said Mr Cowlishaw, impartially, gazing on them.
"They're my teeth," said the patient. And thereupon he opened his mouth
wide, and displayed, not without vanity, a widowed gum. "'Ont 'eeth," he
exclaimed, keeping his mouth open and omitting preliminary consonants.
"Yes," said Mr Cowlishaw, with a dry inflection. "I saw that they were
upper incisors. How did this come about? An accident, I suppose?"
"Well," said the man, "you may call it an accident; I don't. My name's
Rannoch; centre-forward. Ye see? Were ye at the match?"
Mr Cowlishaw understood. He had no need of further explanation; he had
read it all in the _Signal_. And so the chief victim of Tottenham
Hotspur had come to him, just him! This was luck! For Rannoch was, of
course, the most celebrated man in the Five Towns, and the idol of the
populace. He might have been M.P. had he chosen.
"Dear me!" Mr Cowlishaw sympathized, and he said again, pointing more
firmly to the chair of chairs, "Will you sit down?"
"I had 'em all picked up," Mr Rannoch proceeded, ignoring the
suggestion.
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