She's one of the kind you might expect 'most anything from,--one of these long, limp, loppy, droop eyed fluffs, with terracotta hair, and a prunes-and-prisms mouth all puckered to say something soulful. She's wearin' a whackin' big black feather lid with a long plume trailin' down over one ear, a strawb'ry pink dress cut accordin' to Louis Catorz designs,--waist band under her armpits, you know,--and nineteen-button length gloves. Finish that off with a white hen feather boa, have her hands clasped real shy under her chin, and you've got a picture of what I sees there in the door. But it was the friendly size-up she was givin' me, and no mistake. She must have hung up there three or four minutes too, before she quits, without sayin' a word. At the end of half an hour I was feelin' some better; but when I'd got into my tailor made, I didn't have any great enthusiasm for tacklin' food. "Guess I'll appoint this a special fast day for mine," says I to Sadie. "Why, Shorty!" says she. "Whatever is the matter?" And she has no sooner heard about the touchy tusk than she says, "Oh, pooh! Just say there isn't any such thing as toothache. Pain, you know, is only a false mental photograph, an error of the mind, and----" "Ah, back up, Sadie!" says I. "Do you dream I don't know whether this jump is in my brain or my jaw? This is no halftone; it's the real thing." "Nonsense!" says she. "You come right downstairs and see Dr. Toodle. He'll fix it in no time." Seems this Toodle was the one the party had been arranged for, and Sadie has to hunt him up. It didn't take long to trail him down; for pretty soon she comes towin' him into the drawin'-room, where I'm camped down on a sofa, holdin' on with both hands. "Dr. Toodle," says she, "I want to present Mr. McCabe." Now, I don't claim any seventh-son powers; but I only has to take one look at Toodle to guess that he's some sort of a phony article. No reg'lar pill distributor would wear around that mushy look that he has on. He's a good sized, wide shouldered duck, with a thick crop of long hair that just clears his coat collar, and one of these smooth, soft, sentimental faces the women folks go nutty over,--you know, big nose, heavy chin, and sagged mouth corners. His get-up is something between a priest's and an actor's,--frock coat, smooth front black vest, and a collar buttoned behind. He gurgles out that he's charmed to meet Mr. McCabe, and wants to know what's wrong. "Nothin' but a specked tooth," says I. "But I can stand it." "My de-e-ear brother," says Toodle, puttin' his fingers together and gazin' down at me like a prison chaplain givin' a talk to murderers' row, "you are possessed of mental error. Your brain focus has been disturbed, and a blurred image has been cast on the sensitive retina of the----" "Ah, say, Doc.," says I, "cut out the preamble! If you've got a cocaine gun in your pocket, dig it up!"