"Varra guid! but they wunnet catch me, I can tell 'ee."
"It's what is called the Toothache Racket, and far from uncommon. Two men, you see, one of whom is provided with two small paper packets of salt exactly alike, go into the parlour of a tavern which they know countrymen are in the habit of using. The one with the salt, who enters some few minutes after the other, pretends to be suffering greatly from the toothache. The company, observing him to be apparently in extreme pain, begin to recommend different cures for the complaint. One advises him to rub the gum with brandy—another advocates the holding of a little cold water in the mouth—a third has never known the oil of tobacco to fail, and so on. The sufferer, however, is much obliged to them all, but declares that nothing gives himself relief but a little salt, in a paper similar to what he is then applying to his cheek."
"The wicked hyp'crite!" involuntarily exclaimed the simple-minded Cursty.
"Shortly after this he quits the room, leaving his paper on the table. During his absence his "jolly," that is, his accomplice, who, as I said, came in a little while before the other, begins to laugh at the idea of some salt, held outside the face, doing any good to the toothache, and says, of course, it's all the man's imagination. He then proposes to have a bit of fun with the absent invalid, and proceeds to empty all the salt out of the paper on the table, and fill its place with sawdust."
"What's he gangin' to be at," interrupted Mr. Sandboys, deeply interested in the tale.
"In a few minutes the gentleman with the toothache returns, almost raving, and he pretends that the cold air has increased his pain to an intolerable degree. He makes a rush to the paper that he had left behind, and no sooner applies it to his cheek than he declares the salt gives him instantaneous relief; whereupon the whole room begin to titter, and the jolly, or accomplice, as I told you, is well nigh dying with laughter as he informs the simpleton it's nothing but fancy that's curing him, and that there's no salt at all in the paper. But 'the simpleton' declares he knows far better, for he filled it himself out of the salt-cellar just before he quitted home. The jolly then offers to wager him a sovereign that there's not so much as a pinch in it, but the gentleman with the toothache is so certain about the matter, that he says it will only be robbing a man to take a bet on such a subject."
"The rwogue's gettin' honest aw of a sudden," cried Mr. S., with a chuckle.
"At last the rest of the company, finding the gentleman so positive over the business, get to say they don't mind being robbed on the same terms, and accordingly agree to bet him a sovereign or a crown all round, that the paper has no salt in it; whereupon the gentleman with the toothache, who has managed during the laughter at his expense to substitute the other packet from his pocket for the one
