“How was I to know I’d got it? You giv it me. I don’t want none of your teeth; I’ve got enough of my own.” So the boy pipes, as he selects it from his change, and throws it on the counter.

“Don’t sauce me , in the wicious pride of your youth,” Mr. Venus retorts pathetically. “Don’t hit me because you see I’m down. I’m low enough without that. It dropped into the till, I suppose. They drop into everything. There was two in the coffeepot at breakfast time. Molars.”

“Very well, then,” argues the boy, “what do you call names for?”