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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 4, Issue 11 (June 1, 1930)

The Boys of the Cold Brigade

The Boys of the Cold Brigade.

On the other hand, it is more than likely that you are just one-of-us, the grated majority, the boys of the cold brigade, the febrile fugitives from forceps; truly, trembling reader, speaking inci-dentally, “the darkest hour is before the door,” as doubtless you know, unless time and a complete top-and-bottom set have mercifully obliterated memory.

Undoubtedly, dentists are men of Probity, but they are usually so Boring; they dig into things so ruthlessly and often drag the very worst out of you.

Vain for you to recollect what Nelson said at Trafalgar, what the Governor of North Carolina remarked to the Governor of South Carolina, or what the Spartan boy didn't say when the wolf under his waistcoat took advantage of his good nature; hopeless to mouth with Sidney Cartonish candor: “'Tis a far far better fling that I have now than ever I have had before,” or words with similar defects; for, from the moment you are parked in the dentist's pull-pit, and he unships his cuffs, jacks you up, lifts your bonnet and dives in among the molars, you are for all practical purposes merely a jawbone under gas, or a faceful of fixings for dental distraction and extraction; you are in the hands of a maddened molarist, a barbarous bicuspidist; infuriated with fungoid fancies, he ropes himself securely and climbs into your face; he lowers himself into that cavity your tongue has told you is as wide as your views on Sunday excursions and as deep as the deeps; you feel him prospecting with a pick, and then he gets down to the root of things with a pneumatic drill; he maltreats your molars with a maul, biffs your biscuspids with abandon, and incites your incisors to insurrection. You feel that he has taken a look into your soul and found you wilting, and you are only thankful that he has not attempted to unship your jaw and reassemble it more to his fancy.

If only that great frictional fictionist, Mr. Headgear Walruss had studied the terrors of tuggism in his youth, what horrors he could have added to his I-scream specials! Think of such toothsome titles as:

The Boy with the Broken False-setto.
The Devil's Acher.
The Dreadful Hour.
The Terror of the Evil Eye-tooth.

“The stuff that screams are made of.”

“The stuff that screams are made of.”

page 43
“The boy with the Broken False-setto.”

“The boy with the Broken False-setto.”

Drawn Stumps.
Led to the Chair.

It is moments like this,—but enough of these gumbroils, these dental dolors; let us ponder on pleasantries such as hey-days and pay-days, cash-as-cash-can, and other healthful sports and pastimes.