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. And if he lived to be one
hundred years of age, he thought, he would never understand kender.
Day after day they crowded into his front office with their aches and
pains and imaginary ills, and day after day he dispensed sugar pills,
beeswax, curdled milk, and mustard to his faithful patients. The only
real medical procedure he knew was pulling teeth, and there was some
call for that, too.
To kender with toothaches he was Dr. Teeth.
To those with ear problems, Dr. Ears. If someone's joints hurt,
Dr. Bones. No ailment was too acute or too minor.
"Who's next?" All ten of the seated kender jumped to their feet
-- or tried to. Only one stood up and strolled confidently into the
examination room. The other nine flew to the floor, arms and legs
akimbo, shoelaces mysteriously tied to their chairs. Phineas had seen
many things in his kender-filled waiting room. Most of his patients
with genuine ailments received them in his office. Fights broke out
regularly -- he made a lot of money off those, removing broken teeth
and plugging bloody noses -- but he admired this particular kender's
ingenuity.
Stepping gingerly through the thrashing, flopping bodies and
dodging their famous kender taunts, Phineas followed his next patient
into the examination room.
Washing,his hands in a stoneware pitcher of cool, murky water,
he smiled at his patient. "Just hop up in that chair," he invited.
"What can I do for you today? Teeth, ears -- a haircut, maybe?"
"I have those, yes, and I could use a haircut," replied the
kender -- a young one, judging from the deep brown color of his hair
and wrinkle-free skin
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