Let us not forget the story of the young woman who had a tooth which must come out. She agreed with the practitioner that it should be drawn, but each time he brought the forceps into view she clenched her jaws tightly together and refused to open them until he put down the shining instrument to argue with her. Finally he had an inspiration. He bade his woman assistant get a long hatpin from her hat and station herself just behind where the obdurate patient sat. “Now, then,” he counseled her, “when I get the forceps right close to her lips I’ll give you the signal and you jab the hatpin clear up through the seat of the chair. Naturally, she’ll open her mouth to say ‘Ouch!’ and then I’ll get that tooth. It’s very loose—it’ll come out in a jiffy.” The artifice worked. As the dentist held up the ousted tooth he said soothingly: “Now, then, that wasn’t so bad after all, was it?” “No,” said the relieved sufferer; “only one sharp, darting pain. But oh, doctor, I had no idea that the roots of a tooth went down so deep!” § 302 Belated but Sincere The funeral was over. The elderly widower, having returned from the cemetery, sat on the front porch of his small New Hampshire cottage whistling to himself. A neighbor passed, and saw the solitary figure in the shadow of the porch, and halted his team. “Well, Uncle Gil,” he said, striving to put sympathy into his tones, “how air you bearin’ up?” “Fust-rate, Eph,” said the supposedly bereaved one, cheerfully. “Dun’t know ez I ever felt better.” “I thought mebbe you’d be missin’ her,” said the neighbor. “She was a good wife—tuck keer of your home and raised your children and always done mighty well by you durin’ all the thutty years you lived together.” “Yas; I know that,” stated the widower. “She done all them things and I lived with her thutty years, jest ez you was sayin’. But, gol-dern her, I never did like her!” § 303 An Expert Opinion When I hear of medical experts disagreeing in a consultation I think of a diagnosis which was made once by a colored person from down South who came North to drive a car for a friend of mine. This was in the days when automobiles were more prone to functional disorders than at present. The darky was a fair-enough chauffeur and he professed to be a good mechanic, but as subsequent events proved, no reasonably prudent person would entrust him with a nutpick. One bright Sunday he took his master for a spin over on Long Island. Suddenly, on a lonely road, the car developed a racking cough and a hectic flush and after panting along for a few rods came to a dead stop. The chauffeur descended from his seat, selected an armload of wrenches and other utensils from the tool-box and wriggled his way under the balking auto. There he hammered and tinkered for twenty minutes. Eventually he crawled out, covered with dust and streaked with grease, and delivered his opinion to his employer.