Mother brought a light. Dad moaned, but did n't
look up.
"Well, Mr. Rudd," the pressman commenced (he was young and fresh-looking),
"I'm from the (something-or-other) office. I'm--er--after information
about the crops round here. I suppose--er----"
"Oh-h-h!" Dad groaned, opening his mouth over the fire, and pressing the
tooth hard with his thumb.
The pressman stared at him for awhile; then grinned at the storekeeper,
and made a derisive face at Dad's back. Then--"What have you got in this
season, Mr. Rudd? Wheat?"
"I don't know....Oh-h--it's awful!"
Another silence.
"Did n't think toothache so bad as THAT," said the man of news, airily,
addressing Mother. "Never had it much myself, you see!"
He looked at Dad again; then winked slyly at Canty, and said to Dad, in an
altered tone: "Whisky's a good thing for it, old man, if you've got any."
Nothing but a groan came from Dad, but Mother shook her head sadly in the
negative.
"Any oil of tar?"
Mother brightened up. "There's a little oil in the house," she said,
"but I don't know if we've any tar. Is there, Joe--in that old drum?"
"Nurh."
The Press looked out the window.
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