"I see them," replies the doctor. "But three teeth at—er—one sitting! Isn’t that _rather_ a tall order? Don’t you think, perhaps, now, that we’d better take out only two to-day and leave the other one for treatment later on?" The mother grins extensively, shaking her jolly head. "Never mind, Doctor," she says, "let’s ’ave ’em all out. It’s on’y eighteenpence." *XXXIV* *THE WOES OF WILFERED* Wilfered, the ’Pothecary, hath a sorrow, or rather two sorrows, if not more than that. Some of these sorrows have reference to his master’s interests; and it was in the capacity of Doctor Brink’s familiar friend that I was privileged to learn some details of Wilfered’s private and professional afflictions. We were in the dispensary, Wilfered having just explained that there were limits to the things which even he could stand; that the affections of a man and a ’Pothecary could be toyed with once too often, when a little maid came in. She was quite a little maid—some four to five spans high—the top of her dishevelled head being scarcely on a level with the ledge of Wilfered’s peep-hole—that mysterious recess through which he views and governs the multitude within the doctor’s waiting-room. The little maiden, having rapped authoritatively upon the wainscoting, held up an arm with a penny at the end of it, and a face enamelled over with soot and treacle. Said this client, speaking quickly— "Penny powder for a baby six months owld." Wilfered’s expression of general discontent changed to one of immediate and particular disgust. "What do you say?" he demanded of the client. "Please," murmured that lady, with the air of one triumphantly conscious of that which was expected of her. Wilfered solemnly shook his head. "Never mind about yere manners," said Wilfered. "What d’ye want?" "Penny powder for a baby six months owld," repeated the child. Wilfered turned from the client to me, a look as of despair upon his face. "This is the sorter thing you gotter contend against," he complained. Then addressing himself once more to the child, he uttered a sort of formula which he keeps for these emergencies— "We don’t sell powders yere. If you wanter powder, go to the chimmis." The infant looked at him hopelessly. "Mover told me to come yere," she said. "Under the circumstances," responded Wilfered, uttering another formula, "we will let you ’ave the powder. We won’t sell it. We’ll _give_ it you. Nex’ time, go to the chimmis." "That’s the sorter thing you gotter contend against," said Wilfered again, as the client departed. He was about to repeat this observation for the third time, when his thoughts were distracted by the entry of another juvenile client—an older and taller girl than the last, though hardly a cleaner one. "Penny soothin’ powder for a baby eight months owld," demanded the new-comer. She was the possessor of a wide, immovable smile.