When we'd abated ourselves I looked him over.

"What you doin' in all them good clothes?" I inquired.

"I'm a D.D.S."

"Do tell! All I ever took was the first three degrees. Gimme the grip
and the password and I'll believe you."

"That ain't a Masonic symbol," said he. "I'm a dentist--a bony fido
dentist, with forceps and a little furnace and a gas-bag and a
waitin'-rooms". He swelled up and bit a hang-nail off of his cigar.

"Yep! A regular toothwright."

Naturally I was surprised, not to say awed. "Have you got much of a
practice?" I made bold to ask.

"Um-m--It ain't what it ought to be, still I can't complain. It takes
time to work into a fashionable clienteel. All I get a whack at now is
Injuns, but I'm gradually beginnin' to close in on the white teeth."

Now this was certainly news to me, for Mike was a foot-racer, and a
good one, too, and the last time I'd seen him he didn't know nothing
about teeth, except that if you ain't careful they'll bite your
tongue. I figured he was lyin', so I said:

"Where did you get your degree--off of a thermometer?"

"Nothing of the tall. I run it down. I did, for a God's fact. It's