"Now, sit over, and we'll have supper," said Dad, proud of having some
fried steak to offer the visitors. We had killed a cow the evening
before--one that was always getting bogged in the dam and taking up much
of Dad's time dragging her out and cutting greenstuff to keep her alive.
The visitors enjoyed her. The pressman wanted salt. None was on the
table. Dad told Joe to run and get some--to be quick. Joe went out, but
in a while returned. He stood at the door with the hammer in his hand
and said:
"Did you shift the r-r-r-rock-salt from where S-Spotty was lickin' it this
evenin', Dave?"
Dave reached for the bread.
"Don't bother--don't bother about it," said the pressman. "Sit down,
youngster, and finish your supper."
"No bother at all," Dad said; but Joe sat down, and Dad scowled at him.
Then Dad got talking about wheat and wallabies--when, all at once, the
pressman gave a jump that rattled the things on the table.
"Oh-h-h!...I'VE got it now!" he said, dropping his knife and fork and
clapping his hands over his mouth. "Ooh!"
We looked at him. "Got what?" Dad asked, a gleam of satisfaction
appearing in his eyes.
"The toothache!--the d----d toothache!.
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