 CHAPTER XV. Then the grind began. It would have been easier for the MacTigues to have faced their misfortunes had they befallen them immediately after their marriage, when their love for each other was fresh and fine, and when they could have found a certain happiness in helping each other and sharing each other's privations. Trina, no doubt, loved her husband more than ever, in the sense that she felt she belonged to him. But MacTigues' affection for his wife was dwindling a little every day, had been dwindling for a long time, in fact. He had become used to her by now. She was part of the order of the things with which he found himself surrounded. He saw nothing extraordinary about her. It was no longer a pleasure for him to kiss her and take her in his arms. She was merely his wife. He did not dislike her. He did not love her. She was his wife. That was all. But he sadly missed and regretted all those little animal comforts which in the old prosperous life Trina had managed to find for him. He missed the cabbage soups and steaming chocolate that Trina had taught him to like. He missed his good tobacco that Trina had educated him to prefer. He missed the Sunday afternoon walks that she had caused him to substitute in place of his nap in the operating chair. And he missed the bottle beer that she had induced him to drink in place of the steam beer from Frenna's. In the end he grew morose and sulky, and sometimes neglected to answer his wife when she spoke to him. Besides this, Trina's avarice was a perpetual annoyance to him. Oftentimes when a considerable alleviation of this unhappiness could have been obtained at the expense of a nickel or a dime, Trina refused the money with the pettishness that was exasperating. No, no, she would exclaim. To ride to the park Sunday afternoon that means ten cents, and I can't afford it. Let's walk there then. I've got to work. But you've worked morning and afternoon every day this week. I don't care. I've got to work. There had been a time when Trina had hated the idea of mcteague drinking steam beer as common and vulgar. Say, let's have a bottle of beer tonight. We haven't had a drop of beer in three weeks. We can't afford it. It's fifteen cents a bottle. But I haven't had a swallow of beer in three weeks. Drink steam beer then. You've got a nickel. I gave you a quarter day before yesterday. But I don't like steam beer now. It was so with everything. Unfortunately Trina had cultivated taste in mcteague which now could not be gratified. He had come to be very proud of his silk hat and Prince Albert Coat, and liked to wear them on Sundays. Trina had made him sell both. He preferred a Yale mixture in his pipe. Trina had made him come down to Mastiff, a five-cent tobacco with which he was once contented, but now a poured. He liked to wear clean cuffs. Trina allowed him a fresh pair on Sundays only. At first these deprivations angered mcteague. Then all of a sudden he slipped back into the old habits that had been his before he knew Trina with an ease that was surprising. Sundays he dined at the car conductor's coffee joint once more, and spent the afternoon lying full length upon the bed. Cropful, stupid, warm, smoking his huge pipe, drinking his steam beer, and playing his six mournful tunes upon his concertina, dozing off to sleep towards four o'clock. The sale of their furniture had, after paying the rent and outstanding bills, netted about a hundred and thirty dollars. Trina believed that the auctioneer from the second-hand store had swindled and cheated them, and had made a great outcry to no effect. But she had arranged the affair with the auctioneer herself, and offset her disappointment in the matter of the sale by deceiving her husband as to the real amount of the returns. It was easy to lie to mcteague, who took everything for granted, and since the occasion of her trickery with the money that was to have been sent to her mother, Trina had found falsehood easier than ever. Twenty dollars is all the auctioneer gave me, she told her husband, and after paying the balance due on the rent and the grocer's bill, there's only fifty left. Only fifty? murmured mcteague, wagging his head. Only fifty. Think of that. Only fifty, declared Trina. Afterwards she said to herself with a certain admiration for her cleverness, couldn't save sixty dollars much easier than that. And she had added the hundred and thirty to the little hoard in the chamoiskin bag and brass matchbox in the bottom of her trunk. In these first months of their misfortunes the routine of the mcteagues was as follows. They rose at seven and breakfasted in their room, Trina cooking the very meager meal on an oil stove. Immediately after breakfast Trina sat down to her work of whittling the Noah's Ark animals, and mcteague took himself off to walk downtown. He had by the greatest good luck secured a position with the manufacturer of surgical instruments, where his manual dexterity in the making of excavators, pluggers, and other dental contrivances stood him in fairly good stead. He lunched at a sailor's boarding house near the waterfront, and in the afternoon worked till six. He was home at six thirty, and he and Trina had supper together in the ladies' dining parlor, an adjunct of the car conductor's coffee joint. Trina meanwhile had worked at her whittling all day long, with but half an hour's interval for lunch, which she herself prepared upon the oil stove. In the evening they were both so tired that they were in no mood for conversation, and went to bed early, worn out, harried, nervous, and cross. Trina was not quite so scrupulously tidy now as in the old days, at one time while whittling the Noah's Ark animals she had worn gloves. She never wore them now. She still took pride in neatly combing and coiling her wonderful black hair, but as the days passed she found it more and more comfortable to work in her blue flannel wrapper. Whittlings and chips accumulated under the window where she did her work, and she was at no great pains to clear the air of the room, vitiated by the fumes of the oil stove, and heavy with the smell of cooking. It was not gay at life. The room itself was not gay. The huge double bed sprawled over nearly a fourth of the available space. The ankles of Trina's trunk and the wash stand projected into the room from the walls, and barked shins and scraped elbows. Streaks and spots of the non-poisonous paint that Trina used were upon the walls and woodwork. However, in one corner of the room, next the window, monstrous, distorted, brilliant, shining with the light of its own, stood the dentist's sign, the enormous golden tooth, the tooth of a brop-ding-nag. One afternoon in September, about four months after the macteaks had left their suite, Trina was at her work by the window. She had whittled some half dozen sets of animals, and was now busy painting them and making the arcs. Little pots of non-poisonous paint stood at her elbow on the table, together with a box of labels that read, Made in France. Her huge clasped knife was stuck into the underside of the table. She was now occupied solely with the brushes and the glue-pot. She turned the little figures in her fingers with a wonderful lightness and deafness. Painting the chicken's naples yellow, the elephant's blue-gray, the horse's van dyke brown, adding a dot of Chinese white for the eyes and sticking in the ears and tail with a drop of glue. The animals once done, she put together and painted the arcs, some dozen of them, all windows and no doors, each one opening only by a lid, which was half the roof. She had all the work she could handle these days for, from this time till a week before Christmas, Uncle Oberman could take as many Noah's arc sets as she could make. Suddenly, Trina paused in her work, looking expectantly toward the door. McTig came in. Why, Mac, exclaimed Trina, it's only three o'clock. What are you home so early for? Have they discharged you? They fired me, said McTig, sitting down on the bed. Fired you? What for? I don't know, said the times were getting hard and they had to let me go. Trina let her paint-stained hands fall into her lap. Oh, she cried, if we don't have the hardest luck of any two people I ever heard of, what can you do now? Is there another place like that where they make surgical instruments? Huh? No, I don't know. There's three more. Well, you must try them right away. Go down there right now. Huh? Right now? No, I'm tired. I'll go down in the morning. Mac, cried Trina, in alarm. What are you thinking of? You talk as though we were millionaires. You must go down this minute. You're losing money every second you sit there. She goaded the huge fellow to his feet again, thrust his hat into his hands, and pushed him out of the door. He obeying the wild, docile, and obedient as a big cart-horse. He was on the stairs when she came running after him. Mac, they paid you often, they, when they discharged you? Yes. Then you must have some money. Give it to me. The dentist heaved a shoulder uneasily. No, I don't want to. I've got to have that money. There's no more oil for the stove and I must buy some more meal tickets tonight. Always after me about money, muttered the dentist, but he emptied his pockets for her nevertheless. Aye. You've taken it all, he grumbled. Better leave me something for car fare, it's going to rain. Shaw! You can walk just as well as not, a big fellow like you, afraid of a little walk, and it ain't going to rain. Trina had lied again both as to the want of oil for the stove and the commutation ticket for the restaurant, but she knew by instinct that Mac Teague had money about him and she did not intend to let it go out of the house. She listened intently until she was sure Mac Teague was gone. Then she hurriedly opened her trunk and hid the money in the shimmy bag at the bottom. The dentist presented himself at every one of the makers of surgical instruments that afternoon and was promptly turned away in each case. Then it came on to rain, a fine cold drizzle that chilled him and wet him to the bone. He had no umbrella and Trina had not left him even five cents for car fare. He started to walk home through the rain. It was a long way to Polk Street as the last manufactory he had visited was beyond even Folsom Street and not far from the city front. By the time Mac Teague reached Polk Street his teeth were chattering with the cold. He was wet from head to foot. As he was passing Heise's harness shop a sudden deluge of rain overtook him and he was obliged to dodge into the vestibule for shelter. He, who loved to be warm, to sleep and to be well fed, was icy cold, was exhausted and foot sore from trampling the city. He could look forward to nothing better than a badly cooked supper at the coffee joint, hot meat on a cold plate, half done suet pudding, muddy coffee and bad bread. And he was cold, miserably cold and wet to the bone. All at once a sudden rage against Trina took possession of him. It was her fault. She knew it was going to rain and she had not let him have a nickel for car fare. She, who had five thousand dollars, she let him walk the streets in the cold and in the rain. Miser. He growled behind his mustache. Miser. Nasty little old miser. You're worse than old Zerkow, always nagging about money, money. And you got five thousand dollars. You got more. And you live in that stinking hole of a room and you won't drink any decent beer. I ain't going to stand it much longer. She knew it was going to rain. She knew it. Didn't I tell her? And she drives me out of my own home in the rain for me to get money for her. More money. And she takes it. She took that money from me that I earned. It wasn't hers. It was mine. I earned it. And not a nickel for car fare. She don't care if I get wet and get a cold and die. No, she don't. As long as she's warm and's got her money. He became more and more indignant at the picture he made of himself. I ain't going to stand it much longer, he repeated. Why, hello, doc. Is that you? Exclaimed highs, opening the door of the harness shot behind him. Come in out of the wet. Why, you're soaked through, he added, as he and McTig came back into the shop that reeked of oiled leather. Didn't you have any umbrella? I'll to have taken a car. I guess so. And I guess so. Remembered the densest, confused. His teeth were chattering. You are going to catch your death a cold, exclaimed highs. Tell you what, he said, reaching for his hat. Come in next door to Frenna's and have something to warm you up. I'll get the old lady to mine the shop. He called Mrs. High's down from the floor above and took McTig into Joe Frenna's saloon, which was two doors above his harness shop. Whiskey and gum twice, Joe. Said he to the barkeeper as he and the dentist approached the bar. Huh? What? Said McTig. Whiskey. No, I can't drink whiskey. It kind of disagrees with me. Oh, the hell, returned highs, easily. Take it as medicine. You'll get your death a cold if you stand round soaked like that. Two whiskey and gum, Joe. McTig emptied the pony-glass at a single, enormous gulp. That's the way, said High's approvingly. Do you good? He drank his off slowly. I'd. I'd ask you to have a drink with me, High's. Said the dentist, who had an indistinct idea of the amenities of the bar room. Only, he added shame facably. Only, you see. I don't believe I got any change. His anger against Trina, heated by the whiskey he had drank, flamed up afresh. What a humiliating position for Trina to place him in. Not to leave him the price of a drink with a friend. She who had five thousand dollars. Shaw. That's all right, duck. Returned highs, nibbling on a grain of coffee. Want another? Hey, this is my treat. Two more of the same, Joe. McTig hesitated. It was lamentably true that whiskey did not agree with him. He knew it well enough. However, by this time he felt very contrably warm at the pit of his stomach. The blood was beginning to circulate in his chilled fingertips and in his soggy wet feet. He had had a hard day of it. In fact, the last week, the last month, the last three or four months, had been hard. He deserved a little consolation, nor could Trina object to this. It wasn't costing ascent. He drank again with highs. Get up here to the stove and warm yourself, urged highs, drawing up a couple of chairs and cocking his feet upon the guard. The two felt a talking while McTig's draggled coat and trousers smoked. What a dirty turn that was and Marcus shoulder did to you, said highs, wagging his head. You ought to have fought that dock, sure. You'd been practicing too long. They discussed this question some ten or fifteen minutes and then highs rose. Well, this ain't earning any money. I got to get back to the shop. McTig got up as well, and the pair started for the door. Just as they were going out, Ryre met them. Hello, hello, he cried. Lord, what a wet day. You two are going the wrong way. You're going to have a drink with me. Three whiskey punches, Joe. No, no, answered McTig, shaking his head. I'm going back home. I've had two glasses of whiskey already. Shaw, cried highs, catching his arm. A strapping big chap like you ain't afraid of a little whiskey. Well, I, I... I got to go right afterwards, protested McTig. About half an hour after the dentist had left to go downtown, Maria Macapa had come in to see Trina. Occasionally Maria dropped in on Trina in this fashion and spent an hour or so chatting with her while she worked. At first Trina had been inclined to resent these intrusions of the Mexican woman, but of late she had begun to tolerate them. Her day was long and cheerless at the best, and there was no one to talk to. Trina even fancied that old Miss Baker had come to be less cordial since their misfortune. Maria retailed to her all the gossip of the flat and the neighborhood and, which was much more interesting, told her of her troubles with Zerkow. Trina said to herself that Maria was common and vulgar, but one had to have some diversion, and Trina could talk and listen without interrupting her work. On this particular occasion Maria was much excited over Zerkow's demeanor of late. He's getting worse and worse, she informed Trina, as she sat on the edge of the bed, her chin in her hand. He says he knows I got the dishes and I'm hiding them from him. The other day I thought he'd gone off with his wagon, and I was doing a bit of ironing, and by all of a sudden I saw him peeping at me through the crack of the door. I never let on that I saw him, and honest he stayed there over two hours, watching everything I did. I could just feel his eyes on the back of my neck all the time. Last Sunday he took down part of the wall, because he said he'd seen me making figures on it. Well, I was, but it was just the wash list. All the time he says he'll kill me if I don't tell. Why, what do you stay with him for? exclaimed Trina. I'd be deathly afraid of a man like that, and he did take a knife to you once. Oh, he won't kill me, never fear. If he'd kill me he'd never know what the dishes were. That's what he thinks. But I can't understand, Maria. You told him about those gold dishes yourself. Never. Never. I never saw such a lot of crazy folks as you are. But you say he hits you sometimes. Ah, said Maria, tossing her head scornfully. I ain't afraid of him. He takes his horse whip to me now and then, but I can always manage. I say, if you touch me with that, then I'll never tell you. Just pretending, you know. And he drops it as though it was red hot. Say, Mrs. McTeague, have you got any tea? Let's make a cup of tea over the stove. No, no, cried Trina, with niggardly apprehension. No, I haven't got a bit of tea. Trina's stinginess had increased to such an extent that it had gone beyond the mere hoarding of money. She grudged even the food that she and McTeague ate, and even brought away half loaves of bread, lumps of sugar, and fruit from the car conductor's coffee joint. She hid these pilferings away on the shelf by the window, and often managed to make a very creditable lunch from them, and drawing the meal with a greater relish because it cost her nothing. No, Maria, I haven't got a bit of tea, she said, shaking her head decisively. Huck, ain't that Mac? She added, her chin in the air. That's his step, sure. Well, I'm going to skip, said Maria. She left hurriedly, passing the dentist in the hall just outside the door. Well, said Trina, interrogatively as her husband entered. McTeague did not answer. He hung his hat on the hook behind the door and dropped heavily into a chair. Well, asked Trina anxiously, how did you make out, Mac? Still the dentist pretended not to hear, scowling fiercely at his muddy boots. Tell me, Mac, I want to know. Did you get a place? Did you get caught in the rain? Did I? Did I? cried the dentist sharply, and a lacquerty in his manner and voice that Trina had never observed before. Look at me. Look at me! he went on, speaking with an unwanted rapidity, his witch sharp, his ideas succeeding each other quickly. Look at me! turns through, shivering cold. I've walked the city over, caught in the rain. Yes, I guess I did get caught in the rain, and it ain't your fault I didn't catch my death a cold, wouldn't even let me have a nickel for car fare. But, Mac, protested, Trina. I didn't know it was going to rain. The dentist put back his head and laughed scornfully. His face was very red, and his small eyes twinkled. Ho! No, you didn't know it was going to rain. Didn't I tell you it was? he exclaimed, suddenly angry again. Oh, you're a daisy you are. The thing I'm going to put up with your foolishness all the time? Who's the boss? You or I. Why, Mac, I never saw you this way before. You talk like a different man. Well, I am a different man, retorted the dentist, savagely. You can't make small of me always. Well, never mind that. You know I'm not trying to make small of you. But never mind that. Did you get a place? Give me my money, exclaimed MacTig, jumping up riskily. There was an activity, a positive nimbleness about the huge blonde giant that had never been his before. Also his stupidity, the sluggishness of his brain, seemed to be unusually stimulated. Give me my money, the money I gave you as I was going away. I can't, exclaimed Trina. I paid the grocers bill with it while you were gone. Don't believe you. Truly, truly, Mac, do you think I'd lie to you? Do you think I'd lower myself to do that? Well, the next time I earn any money, I'll keep it myself. But tell me, Mac, did you get a place? MacTig turned his back on her. Tell me, Mac, please, did you? The dentist jumped up and thrust his face close to hers, his heavy jaw protruding, his little eyes twinkling meanly. No, he shouted. No, no, no. Do you hear? No. Trina cowered before him. Then suddenly she began to sob aloud, weeping partly at his strange brutality, partly at the disappointment of his failure to find employment. MacTig cast a contemptuous glance about him, a glance at embraced the dingy, cheerless room, the rain streaming down the panes of the one window and the figure of his weeping wife. Oh, ain't this all fine? he exclaimed. Ain't it lovely? It's not my fault, sob Trina. It is, too, vociferated MacTig. It is, too. We could live like Christians and decent people if you wanted to. You got more than five thousand dollars and you're so damned stingy that you'd rather live in a rat hole and make me live there, too, before you'd part with the nickel of it. I tell you I'm sick and tired of the whole business. An allusion to her lottery money never failed to rouse Trina. And I'll tell you this much, too, she cried, winking back the tears. Now that you're out of a job, we can't afford even to live in your rat hole, as you call it. We've got to find a cheaper place than this even. What! exclaimed the dentist, purple with rage. What? Get into a worse hole in the wall than this? Well, we'll see if we will. We'll just see about that. You're going to do just as I tell you after this, Trina MacTig. And once more he thrust his face close to hers. I know what's the matter, cried Trina with a half sob. I know. I can smell it on your breath. You've been drinking whiskey. Yes, I've been drinking whiskey. Retorted her husband. I've been drinking whiskey. Have you got anything to say about it? Ah, yes, you're right. I've been drinking whiskey. What have you got to say about my drinking whiskey? Let's hear it. Oh, oh, oh! sobbed Trina, covering her face with their hands. MacTig caught her wrists in one palm and pulled them down. Trina's pale face was streaming with tears. Her long narrow blue eyes were swimming, her adorable little chin upraised and quivering. Let's hear what you've got to say, exclaimed MacTig. Nothing, nothing, said Trina, between her sobs. Then stop that noise. Stop it, do you hear me? Stop it! He threw up his open hand, threateningly. Stop! he exclaimed. Trina looked at him fearfully, half blinded with weeping. Her husband's thick mane of yellow hair was disordered and rumpled upon his great square-cut head. His big red ears were redder than ever. His face was purple. The thick eyebrows were knotted over the small twinkling eyes. The heavy yellow mustache, that smelt of alcohol, drooped over the massive protruding chin. Salient, like that of the carnivora, the veins were swollen and throbbing on his thick red neck, while over her head Trina saw his upraised palm, calloused, enormous. Stop! he exclaimed. And Trina, watching fearfully, saw the palm suddenly contract into a fist, a fist that was hard as a wooden mallet, the fist of the old-time car boy. And then her ancient terror of him, the intuitive fear of the male, leaped to life again. She was afraid of him. Every nerve of her quailed and shrank from him. She choked back her sobs, catching her breath. There, growled the dentist, releasing her. That's more like. Now he went on, fixing her with his little eyes. Now listen to me. I'm beat out. I've walked the city over. Ten miles, I guess. And I'm going to bed, and I don't want to be bothered. You understand? I want to be let alone. Trina was silent. Do you hear? he snarled. Yes, Mac. The dentist took off his coat, his collar and necktie, unbuttoned his vest, and slipped his heavy, sold boots from his big feet. Then he stretched himself upon the bed and rolled over towards the wall. In a few minutes the sound of his snoring filled the room. Trina craned her neck and looked at her husband over the footboard of the bed. She saw his red, congested face, the huge mouth wide open, his unclean shirt, with its freight wristbands, and his huge feet encased in thick woolen socks. Then her grief and the sense of her unhappiness returned more poignant than ever. She stretched her arms out in front of her on her work table, and, bearing her face in them, cried and sobbed as though her heart would break. The rain continued. The panes of the single window ran with sheets of water, the eaves dripped incessantly. It grew darker. The tiny, grimy room full of the smells of cooking and of non-poisonous paint took on an aspect of desolation and cheerlessness lamentable beyond words. The canary, in its little guilt prison, chittered feebly from time to time. Sprawled at full length upon the bed, the dentist snored and snored, stupefied, inert, his legs wide apart, his hands lying palm upward at his sides. At last Trina raised her head with a long, trembling breath. She rose, and going over to the wash stand poured some water from the pitcher into the basin, and washed her face and swollen eyelids, and rearranged her hair. Suddenly, as she was about to return to her work, she was struck with an idea. I wonder, she said to herself, I wonder where he got the money to buy his whiskey. She searched the pockets of his coat, which he had flung into a corner of the room, and even came up to him as he lay upon the bed, and went through the pockets of his vest and trousers. She found nothing. I wonder, she murmured. I wonder if he's got any money he don't tell me about. I'll have to look out for that. END OF CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI. OF MCTEAGUE. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. MCTEAGUE by Frank Norris. CHAPTER XVI. A week passed, then a fortnight, then a month. It was a month of the greatest anxiety and unquietude for Trina. MCTEAGUE was out of a job, could find nothing to do, and Trina, who saw the impossibility of saving as much money as usual out of her earnings under the present conditions, was on the lookout for cheaper quarters. In spite of his outcries and sulky resistance, Trina had induced her husband to consent to such a move, bewildering him with a torrent of phrases and marvelous columns of figures by which she proved conclusively that they were in a condition but one remove from downright destitution. The dentist continued, idle. Since his ill success with the manufacturers of surgical instruments, he had made but two attempts to secure a job. Trina had gone to see Uncle Oberman and had obtained for MCTEAGUE a position in the shipping department of the wholesale toy store. However, it was a position that involved a certain amount of ciphering, and MCTEAGUE had been obliged to throw it up in two days. Then for a time they had entertained a wild idea that a place on the police force could be secured for MCTEAGUE. He could pass the physical examination with flying colors, and Ryre, who had become the secretary of the Polk Street Improvement Club, promised the requisite political poll. If MCTEAGUE had shown a certain energy in the matter, the attempt might have been successful, but he was too stupid, or of late had become too listless to exert himself greatly, and the affair resulted only in a violent quarrel with Ryre. MCTEAGUE had lost his ambition. He did not care to better his situation. All he wanted was a warm place to sleep and three good meals a day. At the very first he had chafed at his idleness and had spent the days with his wife in their one narrow room, walking back and forth with the restlessness of a caged brute, or sitting motionless for hours, watching Trina at her work, feeling a dull glow of shame at the idea that she was supporting him. This feeling had worn off quickly, however. Trina's work was only hard when she chose to make it so, and as a rule she supported their misfortunes with a silent fortitude. Then, weary at his inaction and feeling the need of movement and exercise, MCTEAGUE would light his pipe and take a turn upon the great avenue one block above Polk Street. A gang of laborers were dicking the foundations for a large brownstone house, and MCTEAGUE found interest and amusement in leaning over the barrier that surrounded the excavations and watching the progress of the work. He came to see it every afternoon. By and by he even got to know the foreman who superintended the job, and the two had long talks together. Then MCTEAGUE would return to Polk Street and find highs in the back room of the harness shop, and occasionally the day ended with some half-dozen drinks of whiskey at Joe Frenner's Saloon. It was curious to note the effect of the alcohol upon the dentist. It did not make him drunk, it made him vicious. So far from being stupefied, he became, after the fourth glass, active, alert, quick-witted, even talkative, a certain wickedness stirred in him then. He was intractable, mean, and when he had drunk a little more heavily than usual, he found a certain pleasure in annoying and exasperating Trina, even in abusing and hurting her. It had begun on the evening of Thanksgiving Day, when highs had taken MCTEAGUE out to dinner with him. The dentist on this occasion had drunk very freely. He and highs had returned to Polk Street towards 10 o'clock, and highs had once suggested a couple of drinks at Frenner's. All right, all right, said MCTEAGUE. Drinks, that's the word. I'll go home and get some money and meet you at Joe's. Trina was awakened by her husband, pinching her arm. Oh, Mac! she cried, jumping up in bed with a little scream. How you hurt! Oh, that hurt me dreadfully. Give me a little money, answered the dentist, grinning and pinching her again. I haven't a scent. There's not a— Oh, Mac, will you stop? I won't have you pinch me that way. Hurry up, answered her husband, calmly, nipping the flesh of her shoulder between his thumb and finger. Highs is waiting for me. Trina wrenched from him with a sharp intake of breath, frowning with pain, and caressing her shoulder. Mac, you've no idea how that hurts. Mac, stop! Give me some money, then. In the end, Trina had to comply. She gave him half a dollar from her dress pocket, protesting that it was the only piece of money she had. One more, just for luck, said MCTEAGUE, pinching her again, and another. How can you— How can you hurt a woman so? exclaimed Trina, beginning to cry with the pain. Ah, now, cry, retorted the dentist. That's right, cry. I never saw such a little fool. He went out, slamming the door in disgust. But MCTEAGUE never became a drunkard in the generally-received sense of the term. He did not drink to excess more than two or three times in a month, and never upon any occasion did he become maudlin or staggering. Perhaps his nerves were naturally too dull to admit of any excitation. Perhaps he did not really care for the whiskey, and only drank because Highs and the other men at Frenna's did. Trina could often reproach him with drinking too much. She never could say that he was drunk. The alcohol had its effect for all that. It roused the man, or rather the brute in the man, and now not only roused it, but goaded it to evil. MCTEAGUE's nature changed. It was not only the alcohol. It was idleness and a general throwing off of the good influence his wife had had over him in the days of their prosperity. MCTEAGUE disliked Trina. She was a perpetual irritation to him. She annoyed him because she was so small, so prettily made, so invariably correct and precise. Her avarice incessantly harassed him. Her industry was a constant reproach to him. She seemed to flaunt her work defiantly in his face. It was the red flag in the eyes of the bull. One time, when he had just come back from Frenna's and had been sitting in the chair near her, silently watching her at her work, he exclaimed all of a sudden. Stop working. Stop it, I tell you. Put him away. Put him all away, or I'll pinch you. But why? Why, Trina protested. The dentist cuffed her ears. I won't have you work. He took her knife and her paintpots away, and made her sit idly in the window the rest of the afternoon. It was, however, only when his wits had been stirred with alcohol that the dentist was brutal to his wife. At other times, say three weeks of every month, she was merely an encumbrance to him. They often quarreled about Trina's money, her savings. The dentist was bent upon having at least a part of them. What he would do with the money once he had it, he did not precisely know. He would spend it in royal fashion, no doubt, feasting continually, buying himself wonderful clothes. The miner's idea of money quickly gained and lavishly squandered, persisted in his mind. As for Trina, the more her husband stormed, the tighter she drew the strings of the little chamoiskin bag that she hid at the bottom of her trunk, underneath her bridal dress. Her $5,000 invested in Uncle Overman's business was a glittering, splendid dream, which came to her almost every hour of the day as a solace and a compensation for all her unhappiness. At times, when she knew that mcteague was far from home, she would lock her door, open her trunk, and pile all her little hoard on her table. By now it was $407.50. Trina would play with this money by the hour, piling it and repiling it, or gathering it all into one heap, and drawing back to the farthest corner of the room to note the effect, her head on one side. She polished the gold pieces with a mixture of soap and ashes until they shone, wiping them carefully on her apron. Or again she would draw the heap lovingly taught her and bury her face in it, delighted at the smell of it, and the feel of the smooth, cool metal on her cheeks. She even put the smaller gold pieces in her mouth and jingled them there. She loved her money with an intensity that she could hardly express. She would plunge her small fingers into the pile with little murmurs of affection, her long, narrow eyes half closed, and shining, her breath coming in long sighs. Ah, the dear money, the dear money, she would whisper. I love you so. All mine, every penny of it. No one shall ever, ever get you. How I've worked for you. How I've slaved and saved for you. And I'm going to get more. I'm going to get more, more, more, a little every day. She was still looking for cheaper quarters. Whenever she could spare a moment from her work she would put on her hat and range up and down the entire neighborhood from Sutter to Sacramento streets, going into all the alleys and by-street, her head in the air, looking for the rooms to let sign. But she was in despair. All the cheaper tenements were occupied. She could find no room more reasonable than the one she and the dents is now occupied. As time went on, MacTig's idleness became habitual. He drank no more whiskey than at first, but his dislike for Trina increased with every day of their poverty, with every day of Trina's persistent stinginess. At times, fortunately rare, he was more than ever brutal to her. He would box her ears or hit her a great blow with the back of a hair brush, or even with his closed fist. His old-time affection for his little woman, unable to stand the test of privation, had lapsed by degrees, and what little of it was left was changed, distorted, and made monstrous by the alcohol. The people about the house and the clerks at the provision stores often remarked that Trina's fingertips were swollen and the nails purple as though they had been shut in a door. Indeed, this was the explanation she gave. The fact of the matter was that MacTig, when he had been drinking, used to bite them, crunching and grinding them with his immense teeth, always ingenious enough to remember which were the sores. Sometimes he extorted money from her by this means, but as often as not he did it for his own satisfaction. And in some strange inexplicable way this brutality made Trina all the more affectionate, aroused in her a morbid, unwholesome love of submission, a strange unnatural pleasure in yielding, and surrendering herself to the will of an irresistible, virile power. Trina's emotions had narrowed with the narrowing of her daily life. They reduced themselves at last to but two, her passion for her money and her perverted love for her husband when he was brutal. She was a strange woman during these days. Trina had come to be on very intimate terms with Maria Macapa, and in the end the dentist's wife and the maid of all work became great friends. Maria was constantly in and out of Trina's room, and whenever she could Trina threw a shawl over her head and returned Maria's calls. Trina could reach Zerkow's dirty house without going into the street. The backyard of the flat had a gate that opened into a little enclosure where Zerkow kept his decrepit horse and ramshackle wagon, and from thence Trina could enter directly into Maria's kitchen. Trina made long visits to Maria during the morning inner dressing gown and curl papers, and the two talked at great length over a cup of tea served on the edge of the sink or a corner of the laundry table. The talk was all of their husbands and of what to do when they came home in aggressive moods. You never ought to fight them, advised Maria. It only makes them worse. Just hump your back, and it's soonest over. They told each other of their husband's brutalities, taking a strange sort of pride in recounting some particularly savage blow, each trying to make out that her own husband was the most cruel. They critically compared each other's bruises, each one glad when she could exhibit the worst. They exaggerated, they invented details, and as if proud of their beatings, as of glorifying in their husband's mishandling, lied to each other, magnifying their own maltreatment. They had long and excited arguments as to which were the most effective means of punishment, the rope-sins and cart-whips such as Zerkow used, or the fists and backs of hairbrushes affected by mctig. Maria contended that the lash of the whip hurt the most. Trina, that the butt, did the most injury. Maria showed Trina the holes in the walls and the loosened boards in the flooring where Zerkow had been searching for the gold plate. Of late he had been digging in the backyard, and had ransacked the hay in his horse shed for the concealed leather chest he imagined he would find, but he was becoming impatient evidently. The way he goes on, Maria told Trina, is something dreadful. He's getting regularly sick with it, got a fever every night, don't sleep, and when he does, talks to himself, says, more than a hundred pieces and every one of them gold, more than a hundred pieces and every one of them gold. Then he'll wail me with his whip and shout, you know where it is, tell me, tell me you swine, or I'll do for you. And then he'll get down on his knees and whimper, and beg me to tell him where I've hid it. He's just gone plum crazy. Sometimes he has regular fits, he gets so mad and rolls on the floor and scratches himself. One morning in November, about ten o'clock, Trina pays to-day Maiden France label on the bottom of a Noah's Ark and leaned back in her chair with a long sigh of relief. She had just finished a large Christmas order for Uncle Olberman, and there was nothing else she could do that morning. The bed had not yet been made, nor had the breakfast things been washed. Trina hesitated for a moment, then put her chin in the air indifferently. Bah! she said. Let them go till this afternoon. I don't care when the room is put to rights, and I know Mack don't. She determined that instead of making the bed or washing the dishes, she would go and call on Miss Baker on the floor below. The little dressmaker might ask her to state a lunch, and that would be something saved, as a dentist had announced his intention that morning of taking a long walk out to the Presidio to be gone all day. But Trina rapped on Miss Baker's door in vain that morning. She was out. Perhaps she was gone to the florist to buy some geranium seeds. However, ol' Grenis's door stood a little ajar, and on hearing Trina at Miss Baker's room the old Englishman came out into the hall. She's gone out, he said, uncertainly, and in half whisper went out about half an hour ago. I—I think she went to the drugstore to get some wafers for the goldfish. Don't you go to your dog hospital any more, Mr. Grenis? said Trina, leaning against the balustrade in the hall, willing to talk a moment. Old Grenis stood in the doorway of his room in his carpet slippers and faded corduroy jacket that he wore when at home. Why? Why? he said, hesitating, tapping his chin thoughtfully. You see, I'm thinking of giving up the little hospital. Giving it up. You see, the people at the bookstore where I buy my pamphlets have found out. I told them of my contrivance for binding books, and one of the members of the firm came up to look at it. He offered me quite a sum if I would sell him the right of it—the patent of it—quite a sum. In fact—in fact, yes, quite a sum, quite. He rubbed his chin tremulously and looked about him on the floor. Why, isn't that fine? said Trina, good-naturedly. I'm very glad, Mr. Grenis. Is it a good price? Quite a sum, quite. In fact, I never dreamed of having so much money. Now see here, Mr. Grenis, said Trina, decisively. I want to give you a good piece of advice. Here are you and Miss Baker. The old Englishman started nervously. You and Miss Baker that have been in love with each other for— Oh, Mrs. McTeague, that subject. If you would please. Miss Baker is such an estimable lady. Fiddlesticks, said Trina. You're in love with each other, and the whole flat knows it, and you two have been living here side by side year in and year out, and you've never said a word to each other. It's all nonsense. Now I want you should go right in and speak to her just as soon as she comes home, and say you've come into money and you want her to marry you. Impossible, impossible, exclaimed the old Englishman, alarmed and perturbed. It's quite out of the question. I wouldn't presume. Well, do you love her or not? Really, Mrs. McTeague, I—I. You must excuse me. It's a matter so personal, so I— Oh, yes, I love her. Oh, yes, indeed, he exclaimed suddenly. Well, then she loves you. She told me so. Oh, she did. She said those very words. Miss Baker had said nothing of the kind, would have died sooner than have made such a confession, but Trina had drawn her own conclusions, like every other lodger of the flat, and thought the time was come for decided action. Now you do just as I tell you, and when she comes home go right in and see her and have it over with. Now don't say another word. I'm going, but you do just as I tell you. Trina turned about and went downstairs. She had decided, since Miss Baker was not at home, that she would run over and see Maria. Possibly she could have lunch there. At any rate, Maria would offer her a cup of tea. Old Grannis stood for a long time just as Trina had left him, his hands trembling, the blood coming and going in his withered cheeks. She said, she, she, she told her, she said that, that. He could get no farther. Then he faced about and entered his room, closing the door behind him. For a long time he sat in his armchair, drawn close to the wall, in front of the table, on which stood his piles of pamphlets and his little binding apparatus. I wonder, said Trina, as she crossed the yard back of Zerkow's house. I wonder what rent Zerkow and Maria pay for this place, all bet it's cheaper than where Mac and I are. Trina found Maria sitting in front of the kitchen stove, her chin upon her breast. Trina went up to her. She was dead. And as Trina touched her shoulder, her head rolled sideways and showed a fearful gash in her throat under her ear. All the front of her dress was soaked, through and through. Trina backed sharply away from the body, drawing her hands up to her very shoulders, her eyes staring and wide, an expression of unutterable horror twisting her face. She exclaimed, in a long breath, her voice hardly rising above a whisper. Isn't that horrible? Suddenly she turned and fled through the front part of the house to the street door that opened upon the little alley. She looked wildly about her. Directly across the way a butcher's boy was getting into his two-wheeled cart, drawn up in front of the opposite house, while nearby a peddler of wild game was coming down the street, a brace of ducks in his hand. Oh, say, say, gasped Trina, trying to get her voice. Say, come over here quick. The butcher's boy paused, one foot on the wheel, and stared. Trina beckoned frantically. Come over here, come over here quick. The young fellow swung himself into his seat. What's the matter with that woman, he said, half-allowed? There's a murder been done, cried Trina, swaying in the doorway. The young fellow drove away, his head over his shoulder, staring at Trina with eyes that were fixed in absolutely devoid of expression. What's the matter with that woman, he said again to himself as he turned the corner? Trina wondered why she didn't scream, how she could keep from it. How, at such a moment as this, she could remember that it was improper to make a disturbance and create a scene in the street. The peddler of wild game was looking at her suspiciously, he would not do to tell him. He would go away like the butcher's boy. Now wait a minute, Trina said to herself, speaking aloud, she put her hands to her head. Now wait a minute, it won't do for me to lose my wits now, what must I do? She looked about her. There was the same familiar aspect of Polk Street. She could see it at the end of the alley. The big market opposite the flat, the delivery carts rattling up and down, the great ladies from the avenue at their morning shopping, the cable cars trundling past, loaded with passengers. She saw a little boy in a flat leather cap whistling and calling for an unseen dog, slapping a small knee from time to time. Two men came out of Frenna Saloon, laughing heartily. High as the harness maker stood in the vestibule of his shop, a bundle of woodlings in his apron of greasy ticking. And all this was going on, people were laughing and living, buying and selling, walking about there on the sunny sidewalks, while behind her in there, in there, in there. High started back from the sudden apparition of a white-lipped woman in a blue dressing gown that seemed to rise up before him from his very doorstep. Well, Mrs. McTig, you did scare me for— Oh, come over here quick! Trina put her hand to her neck, swallowing something that seemed to be choking her. Maria's killed, Zerkhouse's wife. I found her. Get out, exclaimed Highs. You're joking. Come over here, over into the house. I found her. She's dead. Highs dashed across the street on the run, with Trina at his heels, a trail of spilled whittlings marking his course. The two ran down the alley, the wild game peddler, a woman who had been washing down the steps in a neighboring house, and a man in a broad-brimmed hat stood at Zerkhouse's doorway, looking in from time to time, and talking together. They seemed puzzled. Anything wrong in here? asked the wild game peddler as Highs and Trina came up. Two more men stopped in the corner of the alley and poked street and looked at the group. A woman with a towel round her head raised a window opposite Zerkhouse's house and called to the woman who had been washing the steps. What is it, Mrs. Flint? Highs was already inside the house. He turned to Trina, panting from his run. Where did you say? Where was it? Where? In there, said Trina, farther in, the next room. They burst into the kitchen. Lord! ejaculated Highs, stopping a yard or so from the body, and bending down to peer into the gray face with its brown lips. By God! He's killed her! Who? Zerkhouse, by God? He's killed her, cut her throat. He always said he would. Zerkhouse? He's killed her, her throat's cut. Good Lord! How she did bleed! By God! He's done for her in good shape this time! Oh! I told her! I told her! cried Trina. He's done for her sure this time. She said she could always manage. Oh! It's horrible! He's done for her sure this trip. Cut her throat. Lord! How she is bled! Did you ever see so much? That's murder! That's cold blooded murder! He's killed her. Say, we must get a policeman. Come on. They turned back through the house. Half a dozen people, the wild game peddler, the man with the broad-bromed hat, the washwoman, and three other men were in the front room of the junk shop, a bank of excited faces surged at the door. Beyond this, outside, the crowd was packed solid from one end of the alley to the other. Out in Polk Street the cable cars were nearly blocked and were bunting away slowly through the throng with clanging bells. Every window had its group. And as Trina and the harness-maker tried to force the way from the door of the junk shop, the throng suddenly parted right and left before the passage of two blue-coated policemen who clove a passage through the press, working their elbows energetically. They were accompanied by a third man in citizens' clothes. Highs and Trina went back into the kitchen with the two policemen. The third man in citizens' clothes cleared the intruders from the front room of the junk shop and kept the crowd back, his arm across the open door. Woo! whistled one of the officers as they came out into the kitchen. Cutting scrape? By George! Somebody's been using his knife all right. He turned to the other officer. Better get the wagon. There's a box on the second corner south. Now then, he continued, turning to Trina and the harness-maker, and taking out his notebook and pencil. I want your names and addresses. It was a day of tremendous excitement for the entire street. Long after the patrol wagon had driven away, the crowd remained. In fact, until seven o'clock that evening, groups collected about the door of the junk shop where a policeman stood guard, asking all manner of questions, advancing all manner of opinions. Do you think they'll get him? asked Ryre of the policeman, a dozen necks crane forward eagerly. Ho, we'll get him all right, easy enough. Answered the other with a grand air. What? What's that? What did he say? asked the people on the outskirts of the group. Those in front passed the answer back. He says they'll get him all right, easy enough. The group looked at the policeman admiringly. He skipped to San Jose. Where the rumor started and how no one knew, but everyone seemed persuaded that Zerkow had gone to San Jose. But what did he kill her for? Was he drunk? No, he was crazy, I tell you, crazy in the head, thought she was hiding some money from him. Frenna did a big business all day long. The murder was the one subject of conversation. Little parties were made up in his saloon, parties of twos and threes, to go over and have a look at the outside of the junk shop. Heis was the most important man, the length and breadth of Polk Street. Almost invariably he accompanied these parties, telling again and again of the part he had played in the affair. It was about eleven o'clock. I was standing in front of the shop when Mrs. McTeague, you know, the dentist's wife, came running across the street. And so on, and so on. The next day came a fresh sensation. Polk Street read of it in the morning papers. Towards midnight on the day of the murder, Zerkow's body had been found floating in the bay near Black Point. No one knew whether he had drowned himself or fallen from one of the wars. Clutched in both his hands was a sack full of old and rusty pans, ten dishes, fully a hundred of them, ten cans, and iron knives and forks collected from some dump heap. And all this, exclaimed Frenna, on account of a set of gold dishes that never existed. END OF CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII. OF McTeague. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. McTeague by Frank Norris CHAPTER XVII. One day, about a fortnight after the coroner's inquest had been held, and when the excitement of the terrible affair was calming down and Polk Street beginning to resume its monotonous routine, Old Grannis sat in his clean, well-kept little room in his cushioned armchair, his hands lying idly upon his knees. It was evening, not quite time to light the lamps. Old Grannis had drawn his chair close to the wall, so close, in fact, that he could hear Miss Baker's grenadine brushing against the other side of the thin partition at his very elbow while she rocked gently back and forth, a cup of tea in her hands. Old Grannis's occupation was gone. That morning, the book-selling firm where he had bought his pamphlets had taken his little binding apparatus from him to use as a model. The transaction had been concluded. Old Grannis had received his check. It was large enough to be sure, but when all was over, he returned to his room and sat there sad and unoccupied, looking at the pattern in the carpet and counting the heads of the tax in the zinc guard that was fastened to the wall behind his little stove. By and by he heard Miss Baker moving about. It was five o'clock, the time when she was accustomed to make her cup of tea and keep company with him on her side of the partition. Old Grannis drew up his chair to the wall near where he knew she was sitting. The minutes passed, side by side, and separated by only a couple of inches of board the two old people sat there together while the afternoon grew darker. But for Old Grannis all was different that evening. There was nothing for him to do. His hands lay idly in his lap. His table with its pile of pamphlets was in a far corner of the room, and from time to time stirred with an uncertain trouble he turned his head and looked at it sadly, reflecting that he would never use it again. The absence of his accustomed work seemed to leave something out of his life. It did not appear to him that he could be the same to Miss Baker now. Their little habits were disarranged. Their customs broken up. He could no longer fancy himself so near to her. They would drift apart now, and she would no longer make herself a cup of tea and keep company with him when she knew that he would never again sit before his table binding uncut pamphlets. He had sold his happiness for money. He had bartered all his tardy romance for some miserable banknotes. He had not foreseen that it would be like this. A vast regret welled up within him. What was that on the back of his hand? He wiped it dry with his ancient silk handkerchief. Old Grannis leaned his face in his hands. Not only did an inexplicable regret stir within him, but a certain great tenderness came upon him. The tears that swam in his faded blue eyes were not altogether those of unhappiness. No, this long-delayed affection that had come upon him in his later years filled him with the joy for which tears seemed to be the natural expression. For thirty years his eyes had not been wet. But tonight he felt as if he were young again. He had never loved before, and there was still a part of him that was only twenty years of age. He could not tell whether he was profoundly sad or deeply happy, but he was not ashamed of the tears that brought the smart to his eyes and the ache to his throat. He did not hear the timid rapping on his door, and it was not until the door itself opened that he looked up quickly and saw the little retired dressmaker standing on the threshold, carrying a cup of tea on a tiny Japanese tray. She held it toward him. I was making some tea, she said, and I thought you would like to have a cup. Never after could the little dressmaker understand how she had brought herself to do this thing. One moment she had been sitting quietly on her side of the partition, stirring her cup of tea with one of her gorem spoons. She was quiet. She was peaceful. The evening was closing down tranquilly. Her room was the picture of calmness and order. The geraniums blooming in the starch boxes in the window, the aged goldfish occasionally turning his iridescent flank to catch a sudden glow of the setting sun. The next moment she had been all trepidation. It seemed to her the most natural thing in the world to make a steaming cup of tea and carry it in to old Grannis next door. It seemed to her that he was wanting her, that she ought to go to him. With the bruce resolve and intrepidity that sometimes seizes upon very timid people, the courage of the coward greater than all others, she had presented herself at the old Englishman's half-open door, and, when he had not heated her knock, had pushed it open, and at last, after all these years, stood upon the threshold of his room. She had found courage enough to explain her intrusion. I was making some tea, and I thought you would like to have a cup. Old Grannis dropped his hands upon either arm of his chair, and leaning forward a little, looked at her blankly. He did not speak. The retired dressmaker's courage had carried her thus far, now it deserted her as abruptly as it had come. Her cheeks became scarlet, her funny little false curls trembled with her agitation. What she had done seemed to her indecorous beyond expression. It was an enormity. Fancy, she had gone into his room, into his room, Mr. Grannis's room. She had done this, she who could not pass him on the stairs without a qualm. What to do, she did not know. She stood, a fixture on the threshold of his room, without even resolution enough to beat a retreat. Helplessly, and with a little quaver in her voice, she repeated obstinately, I was making some tea, and I thought you would like to have a cup of tea. Her agitation betrayed itself in the repetition of the word. She felt that she could not hold the tray out another instant. Already she was trembling so that half the tea was spilled. Old Grannis still kept silence, still bending forward with wide eyes, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. Then with the tea tray still held straight before her, the little dressmaker exclaimed tearfully. Oh, I didn't mean. I didn't mean. I didn't know it would seem like this. I only meant to be kind and bring you some tea, and now it seems so improper. I—I—I'm so ashamed. I don't know what you will think of me. I—she caught her breath. Improper, she managed to exclaim. Unladylike, you can never think well of me. I'll go. I'll go. She turned about. Stop! cried Old Grannis, finding his voice at last. Ms. Baker paused, looking at him over her shoulder, her eyes very wide open, blinking through her tears, for all the world like a frightened child. Stop! exclaimed the old Englishman, rising to his feet. I didn't know it was you at first. I hadn't dreamed. I couldn't believe you would be so good, so kind to me. Oh! he cried with a sudden sharp breath. Oh, you are kind. I—I—you have—have made me very happy. No—no! exclaimed Ms. Baker, ready to sob. It was unladylike. You will—you must think ill of me. She stood in the hall. The tears were running down her cheeks, and she had no free hand to dry them. Let me—I'll take the tray from you, cried Old Grannis, coming forward. A tremulous joy came upon him. Never in his life had he been so happy. At last it had come, come when he at least expected it. That which he had longed for and hoped for through so many years. Behold, it was come to-night. He felt his awkwardness leaving him. He was almost certain that the little dressmaker loved him, and the thought gave him boldness. He came toward her and took the tray from her hands, and turning back into the room with it, made as if to set it upon his table. But the piles of his pamphlets were in the way. Both of his hands were occupied with the tray. He could not make a place for it on the table. He stood for a moment uncertain, his embarrassment returning. Oh, won't you—won't you please? He turned his head, looking appealingly at the little old dressmaker. Wait, I'll help you, she said. She came into the room, up to the table, and moved the pamphlets to one side. Thanks. Thanks, murmured old Grannis, setting down the tray. Now—now—now I will go back, she exclaimed, hurriedly. No, no, return the old Englishman. Don't go, don't go. I've been so lonely to-night, and last night too. All this year—all my life, he suddenly cried. I—I—I've forgotten the sugar. But I never take sugar in my tea. But it's rather cold, and I've spilled it, almost all of it. I'll drink it from the saucer. Old Grannis had drawn up his armchair for her. Oh, I shouldn't. This is so. This is so. You must think ill of me. Suddenly she sat down, and resting her elbows on the table, hit her face in her hands. Think ill of you, cried old Grannis. Think ill of you? Why, you don't know. You have no idea. All these years, living so close to you, I—I— he paused suddenly. It seemed to him as if the beating of his heart was choking him. I thought you were binding your books to-night, said Miss Baker, suddenly, and you looked tired. I thought you looked tired when I last saw you, and a cup of tea, you know—it—that. That does you so much good when you're tired. But you weren't binding books? No. No, returned old Grannis, drawing up a chair and sitting down. No, I— The fact is, I've sold my apparatus. A firm of booksellers has bought the rights of it. And aren't you going to bind books any more, exclaimed the little Dresmaker, a shade of disappointment in her manner? I thought you always did about four o'clock. I used to hear you when I was making tea. It hardly seemed possible to Miss Baker that she was actually talking to old Grannis, that the two were really chatting together, face to face, and without the dreadful embarrassment they used to overwhelm them both when they met on the stairs. She had often dreamed of this, but had always put it off to some far distant day. It was to come gradually, little by little, instead of, as now, abruptly, and with no preparation, that she should permit herself the indiscretion of actually intruding herself into his room had never so much as occurred to her. Yet here she was, in his room, and they were talking together, and little by little her embarrassment was wearing away. Yes, yes, I always heard you when you were making tea, returned the old Englishman. I heard the tea things, then I used to draw my chair and my work table close to the wall on my side, and sit there and work while you drank your tea just on the other side, and I used to feel very near to you then. I used to pass the whole evening that way. And yes, yes, I did too, she answered. I used to make tea just at that time and sit there for a whole hour. And didn't you sit close to the partition on your side? Sometimes I was sure of it. I could even fancy that I could hear your dress brushing against the wallpaper close beside me. Didn't you sit close to the partition? I—I don't know where I sat. Old Grannis shyly put out his hand and took hers as it lay upon her lap. Didn't you sit close to the partition on your side? He insisted. No, I don't know. Perhaps, sometimes. Oh, yes, she exclaimed with a little gasp. Oh, yes, I often did. Then Old Grannis put his arm about her and kissed her fitted cheek, that flushed pink upon the instant. After that they spoke but little. The day lapsed slowly into twilight, and the two old people sat there in the gray evening, quietly, their hands in each other's hands, keeping company, but now with nothing to separate them. It had come at last. After all these years they were together. They understood each other. They stood at length in a little Elysium of their own creating. They walked hand in hand in a delicious garden where it was always autumn. Far from the world and together they entered upon the long retarded romance of their commonplace and uneventful lives. CHAPTER XVIII. That same night Mictig was awakened by a shrill screen, and woke to find Trina's arms around his neck. She was trembling so that the bedsprings creaked. Ha! cried the dentist, sitting up in bed, raising his clenched fists. Ha! What? What? What is it? What is it? Oh, Mac! gasped his wife. I had such an awful dream. I dreamed about Maria. I thought she was chasing me, and I couldn't run, and her throat was—oh, she was all covered with blood. Oh! I am so frightened! Trina had borne up very well for the first day or so after the affair, and had given her testimony to the coroner with far greater calmness than highs. It was only a week later that the horror of the thing came upon her again. She was so nervous that she hardly dared to be alone in the daytime, and almost every night woke with a cry of terror, trembling with the recollection of some dreadful nightmare. The dentist was irritated beyond all expression by her nervousness, and especially was he exasperated when her cries woke him suddenly in the middle of the night. He would sit up in bed, rolling his eyes wildly, throwing out his huge fists—at what, he did not know—exclaming, What? What?—the wildered, and hopelessly confused. Then when he realized that it was only Trina, his anger kindled abruptly. Oh, you and your dreams! You go to sleep, or I'll give you a dressing down. Sometimes he would hit her a great thwack with his open palm, or catch her hand and bite the tips of her fingers. Trina would lie awake for hours afterward, crying softly to herself. Then by and by, Mac, she would say timidly, Huh? Mac, do you love me? Huh? What? Go to sleep. Don't you love me any more, Mac? Oh, go to sleep, don't bother me. Well, do you love me, Mac? I guess so. Oh, Mac, I've only you now, and if you don't love me, what is going to become of me? Shut up, and let me go to sleep. Well, just tell me that you love me. The dentist would turn abruptly away from her, bearing his big blonde head in the pillow, and covering up his ears with the blankets. Then Trina would sob herself to sleep. The dentist had long since given up looking for a job, between breakfast and supper time Trina saw but little of him. Once the morning meal over, Mac Teague bestirred himself, put on his cap, he had given up wearing even a hat since his wife had made him sell his silk hat, and went out. He had fallen into the habit of taking long and solitary walks beyond the suburbs of the city. Sometimes it was to the cliff house, occasionally to the park, where he would sit on the sun warmed benches, smoking his pipe and raiding ragged ends of old newspapers, but more often it was to the Presidio Reservation. Mac Teague would walk out to the end of the Union Street car line, entering the reservation at the Terminus, then he would work down to the shore of the bay, follow the shoreline to the old fort at the Golden Gate, and turning the point here, come out suddenly upon the full sweep of the Pacific, then he would follow the beach down to a certain point of rocks that he knew. Here he would turn inland, climbing the bluffs to a rolling grassy down, sewn with blue iris and a yellow flower that he did not know the name of. On the far side of this down was a broad, well-kept road. Mac Teague would keep to this road until he reached the city again by the way of the Sacramento Street car line. The dentist loved these walks. He liked to be alone. He liked the solitude of the tremendous tumbling ocean, the fresh windy downs. He liked to feel the gusty trades flocking his face, and he would remain for hours watching the roll and plunge of the breakers with the silent, unreasoned enjoyment of a child. All at once he developed a passion for fishing. He would sit all day and nearly motionless upon a point of rocks, his fish-line between his fingers, happy if he caught three perch and twelve hours. At noon he would retire to a bit of level turf around an angle of the shore and cook his fish, eating them without salt or knife or fork. He thrust a pointed stick down the mouth of the perch, and turned it slowly over the blaze. When the grease stopped dripping, he knew that it was done, and would devour it slowly and with tremendous relish, picking the bones clean, eating even the head. He remembered how often he used to do this sort of thing when he was a boy in the mountains of Placer County before he became a car boy at the mine. The dentist enjoyed himself hugely during these days. The instincts of the old-time miner were returning. In the stress of his misfortune McTeague was lapsing back to his early estate. One evening as he reached home after such a tramp, he was surprised to find Trina standing in front of what had been Zirk House's house, looking at it thoughtfully, her finger on her lips. What are you doing here? growled the dentist as he came up. There was a rooms-to-lets sign on the straight door of the house. Now we've found a place to move to, exclaimed Trina. What? cried McTeague. There, in that dirty house, where you found Maria? I can't afford that room in the flat anymore, now that you can't get any work to do. But there's where Zirkow killed Maria, the very house, and you wake up and squeal in the night just thinking of it. I know. I know it will be bad at first, but I'll get used to it, and it's just half again as cheap as where we are now. I was looking at a room, we can have it dirt cheap. It's a back room over the kitchen. A German family are going to take the front part of the house and sublet the rest. I'm going to take it. It'll be money in my pocket. But it won't be any in mine, Luciferated the dentist angrily. I'll have to live in that dirty rat hole just so as you can save money. I ain't any the better off for it. Find work to do, and then we'll talk, declares Trina. I'm going to save up some money against a rainy day, and if I can save more by living here, I'm going to do it, even if it is the house Maria was killed in. I don't care. All right, said McTig, it did not make any further protest. His wife looked at him surprised. She could not understand this sudden acquiescence. Perhaps McTig was so much away from home of late that he had seized a care where or how he lived, but this sudden change troubled her a little for all that. The next day the McTig's moved for a second time. It did not take them long. They were obliged to buy the bed from the landlady, a circumstance which nearly broke Trina's heart, and this bed, a couple of chairs, Trina's trunk, an ornament or two, the oil stove, and some plates and kitchenware were all that they could call their own now, and this back room in that wretched house with its grisly memories, the one window looking out into a grimy maze of backyards and broken sheds, was what they now knew is their home. The McTig's now began to sink rapidly lower and lower. They became a custom to their surroundings. Worst of all, Trina lost her pretty ways in her good looks. The combined effects of hard work, avarice, poor food, and her husband's brutalities told on her swiftly. Her charming little figure grew coarse, stunted, and dumpy. She who had once been of a cat-like neatness, now slovened all day about the room in a dirty flannel wrapper, her slippers clapped clapping after her as she walked. At last she even neglected her hair, the wonderful swarthy tiara, the coiffure of a queen that shaded her little pale forehead. In the morning she braided it before it was half combed and piled and coiled it about her head in half-hazard fashion. It came down half a dozen times a day. By evening it was an unkempt, tangled mass, a veritable rat's nest. Ah, no. It was not very gay in that life of hers, when one had to wrestle for two, cook and work and wash to say nothing of paying the rent. What odds was it if she was slatternly, dirty, coarse? Was there time to make herself look otherwise? And who was there to be pleased when she was all prinked out, surely not a great brute of a husband who bit you like a dog, and kicked and pounded you as though you were made of iron? Ah, no. Better let things go and take it as easy as you could. Hump your back, and it was soonest over. The one room grew abominably dirty, reeking with the odors of cooking and of non-poisonous paint. The bed was not made until late in the afternoon, sometimes not at all. Dirty, unwashed, crockery, greasy knives, sodden fragments of yesterday's meals cluttered the table, while in one corner was the heap of evil-smelling, dirty linen. Cockroaches appeared in the crevices of the woodwork. The wallpaper bulged from the damp walls and began to peel. Trina had long ago seized a dust or to wipe the furniture with a bit of rag. The grime grew thick upon the window panes and in the corners of the room. All the filth of the alley invaded their quarters like a rising muddy tide. Between the windows, however, the faded photograph of the couple in their wedding finery looked down upon the wretchedness. Trina still holding her set bouquet straight before her. M'ctig standing at her side, his left foot forward, in the attitude of a secretario state. While nearby hung the canary, the one thing the dentist clung to obstinately, piping and chittering all day, in its little gilt prison. And the tooth, the gigantic golden molar of French gilt, enormous and ungainly, sprawled its branching prongs in one corner of the room by the footboard of the bed. The m'ctig's had come to use it as a sort of substitute for a table. After breakfast and supper, Trina piled the plates and greasy dishes upon it to have them out of the way. One afternoon the other dentist, m'ctig's old-time rival, the wearer of marvellous waistcoats, was surprised out of all countenance to receive a visit from m'ctig. The other dentist was in his operating room at the time and work upon a plaster of Paris mould. To his call of, come right in, don't you see the sign, enter without knocking. M'ctig came in. He noted at once how airy and cheerful was the room. A little fire coughed and tittered on the hearth. A brindled greyhound sat on his raunches, watching it intently. A great mirror over the mantle offered to view an array of actresses' pictures thrust between the glass and the frame, and a big bunch of freshly cut violets stood in a glass bowl on the polished cherry wood table. The other dentist came forward briskly, exclaiming cheerfully, Oh, doctor, m'ctig, how do, how do? The fellow was actually wearing a velvet smoking jacket. A cigarette was between his lips. His patent leather boots reflected the firelight. M'ctig wore a black sura negligee shirt without a cravat, huge buckled brogons, hobnailed, gross, encased his feet. The hems of his trousers were spotted with mud. His coat was frayed at the sleeves and a button was gone. In three days he had not shaved. His shock of heavy blonde hair escaped from beneath the visor of his woollen cap and hung low over his forehead. He stood with awkward shifting feet and uncertain eyes before the dapper fellow, who reeked of the barbershop, and whom he had once ordered from his rooms. What can I do for you this morning, Mr. M'ctig? Something wrong with the teeth, eh? No, no. M'ctig, flandering in the difficulties of his speech, forgot the carefully rehearsed words with which he had intended to begin this interview. I want to sell you my sign, he said stupidly, that big tooth of French guilt. You know that you made an offer for once. Oh, I don't want that now, said the other, loftily. I prefer a little quiet signboard, nothing pretentious, just the name and—dentist after it. These big signs are vulgar. No, I don't want it. M'ctig remained, looking about on the floor, horribly embarrassed, not knowing whether to go or to stay. But I don't know, said the other dentist, reflectively. If it will help you out any, I guess you're pretty hard up. I'll— Well, I'll tell you what. I'll give you five dollars for it. All right, all right. On the following Thursday morning M'ctig woke to hear the eaves dripping and the prolonged rattle of the rain upon the roof. Raining, he growled, in deep disgust, sitting up in bed and winking at the blurred window. It's been raining all night, said Trena. She was already up and dressed and was cooking breakfast on the oil stove. M'ctig dressed himself, grumbling. Well, I'll go, anyhow. The fish will bite all the better for the rain. Look here, Mac, said Trena, slicing a bit of bacon as thinly as she could. Look here. Why don't you bring some of your fish home some time? Huh! snorted the dentist, so as we could have them for breakfast. Might save you a nickel, minding it. Well, and if it did—or you might fish for the market—the fishermen across the street would buy them a view. Shut up! exclaimed the dentist, and Trena obediently subsided. Look here, continued her husband, fumbling in his trousers' pocket and bringing out a dollar. I'm sick and tired of coffee and bacon and mashed potatoes. Go over to the market and get some kind of meat for breakfast. Get a steak, or chops, or something. Why, Mac, that's a whole dollar, and he only gave you five for your sign. We can't afford it. Sure, Mac, let me put that money away against a rainy day. You're just as well off without meat for breakfast. You do as I tell you. Get some steak or chops or something. Please, Mac, dear. Go on, now. I'll bite your fingers again pretty soon. But—the dentist took a step towards her, snatching at her hand. All right, I'll go, cried Trena, wincing and shrinking. I'll go. She did not give the chops at the big market, however. Instead she hurried to a cheaper butcher shop on a side street two blocks away, and bought fifteen cents worth of chops from a side of mutton some two or three days old. She was gone some little time. Give me the change, exclaimed the dentist, as soon as she returned. Trena handed him a quarter, and when MacTig was about to protest, broke in upon him with a rapid stream of talk that confused him upon the instant. But for that matter it was never difficult for Trena to deceive the dentist. He never went to the bottom of things. He would have believed her if she had told him the chops had cost a dollar. There's sixty cents saved anyhow, thought Trena, as she clutched the money in her pocket to keep it from rattling. Trena cooked the chops, and they breakfasted in silence. Now, said MacTig, as he rose, wiping the coffee from his thick mustache with the hollow of his palm, now I'm going fishing, rain or no rain. I'm going to be gone all day. He stood for a moment at the door, his fish line in his hand, swinging the heavy singer back and forth. He looked at Trena as she cleared away the breakfast things. So long, said he, nodding his huge, square-cut head. This amy ability in the matter of leave taking was unusual. Trena put the dishes down and came up to him, her little chin, once so adorable in the air. Kiss me good-bye, Mac, she said, putting her arms around his neck. You do love me a little yet, don't you, Mac? We'll be happy again some day. This is hard times now, but we'll pull out. You'll find something to do pretty soon. I guess so, growled MacTig, allowing her to kiss him. The canary was stirring nimbly in its cage, and just now broke out into a shrill trilling, its little throat bulging and quivering. The dentist stared at it. Say, he remarked slowly, I think I'll take that bird of mine along. Sell it, inquired Trena. Yes, yes, sell it. Well, you are coming to your senses at last, answered Trena, approvingly. But don't you let the bird-store man cheat you. That's a good songster, and with the cage you ought to make him give you five dollars. You stick out for that at first, anyhow. MacTig unhooked the cage and carefully wrapped it in an old newspaper, remarking, he might get cold. Well, so long, he repeated. So long. Good-bye, Mac. When he was gone, Trena took the sixty-cent she had stolen from him out of her pocket and recounted it. It's sixty cents, all right, she said proudly, but I do believe that dime is too smooth. She looked at it critically. The clock on the powerhouse of the Sutter Street cable struck eight. Eight o'clock already, she exclaimed. I must get to work. She cleared the breakfast things from the table, and drawing up her chair and her workbox began painting the set of Noah's Ark animals she had whittled the day before. She worked steadily all the morning. At noon she launched, warming over the coffee left from breakfast, and frying a couple of sausages. By one she was bending over her table again. Her fingers, some of them lacerated by MacTig's teeth, flew, and the little pile of cheap toys in the basket at her elbow grew steadily. Where do all the toys go to, she murmured. The thousands and thousands of these Noah's oaks that I have made, horses and chickens and elephants, and always there never seems to be enough. It's a good thing for me that children break their things, and that they all have to have birthdays and Christmases. She dipped her brush into a pot of Van Dyke brown and painted one of the whittled toy horses in two strokes. Then a touch of ivory black with a small flat brush created the tail and mane, and dots of Chinese white made the eyes. The turpentine in the paint dried it almost immediately, and she tossed the completed little horse into the basket. At six o'clock the dentist had not returned. Trina waited until seven, and then put her work away, and ate her supper alone. I wonder what's keeping Mac, she exclaimed, as the clock from the powerhouse on Sutter Street struck half past seven. I know he's drinking somewhere, she cried apprehensively. He had the money from his son with him. At eight o'clock she threw a shawl over her head, and went over to the harness shop. If anybody would know where McTique was it would be Heis. But the harness-maker had seen nothing of him since the day before. He was in here yesterday afternoon, and we had a drink or two at Frenna's. Maybe he's been in there today. Oh, won't you go in and see? said Trina. Mac always came home to his supper. He never likes to miss his meals, and I'm getting frightened about him. Heis went into the bar room next door, and returned with no definite news. Frenna had not seen the dentist since he had come in with the harness-maker the previous afternoon. Trina even humbled herself to ask of the Ryers, with whom they had quarreled, if they knew anything of the dentist's whereabouts, but received a contemptuous negative. Maybe he's come in while I've been out, said Trina to herself. She went down Polk Street again, going towards the flat. The rain had stopped, but the sidewalks were still glistening. The cable cars trumbled by, loaded with theater-goers. The barbers were just closing their shops. The candy store on the corner was brilliantly lighted and was filling up, while the green and yellow lamps from the drugstore directly opposite through kaleidoscopic reflections deep down into the shining surface of the asphalt. A band of salvationists began to play and pray in front of Frenna's saloon. Trina hurried on down the gay street, with its evening's brilliancy and small activities, her shawl over her head, one hand lifting her faded skirt from off the wet pavements. She turned into the alley, entered Zerkow's old home by the ever-opened door, and ran upstairs to the room. Nobody. Why isn't this funny, she exclaimed, half-aloud, standing on the threshold, her little milk-white forehead curdling to a frown, one sore finger on her lips. Then a great fear seized upon her. Inevitably she associated the house with a scene of violent death. No. No, she said to the darkness. Mack is all right. He can take care of himself. But for all that, she had a clear-cut vision of her husband's body, bloated with seawater, his blond hair streaming like kelp, rolling inertly and shifting waters. He couldn't have fallen off the rocks, she declared firmly. There, there he is now. She heaved a great sigh of relief as a heavy tread sounded in the hallway below. She ran to the banisters, looking over and calling, oh, Mack, is that you, Mack? It was a German whose family occupied the lower floor. The powerhouse clock struck nine. My God, where is Mack? cried Trina, stamping her foot. She put the shawl over her head again, and went out and stood on a corner of the alley in Polk Street, watching and waiting, craning her neck to seat down the street. Once even she went out upon the sidewalk in front of the flat and sat down for a moment upon the horse-block there. She could not help remembering the day when she had been driven up to the horse-block in a hack. Her mother and father and Auguste and the twins were with her. It was her wedding day. Her wedding dress was in a huge tin trunk on the driver's seat. She had never been happier before in all her life. She remembered how she got out of the hack and stood for a moment upon the horse-block, looking up at McDeague's windows. She had caught a glimpse of him at his shaving, the lather still on his cheek, and they had waved their hands at each other. Instinctively Trina looked up at the flat behind her, looked up at the bay window where her husband's dental parlors had been. It was all dark, the windows had the blind, sightless appearance imparted by vacant, untenanted rooms. A rusty iron rod projected mournfully from one of the window-ludges. There's where a sign hung once, said Trina. She turned her head and looked down Polk Street towards where the other dentists had his rooms, and there, overhanging the street from his window, newly furbished and brightened, hung the huge tooth, her birthday present to her husband, flashing and glowing in the white glare of the electric lights, like a beacon of defiance and triumph. Ah, no! Ah, no! whispered Trina, choking back a sob. Life isn't so gay. But I wouldn't mind. No, I wouldn't mind anything, if only Mack was home all right. She got up from the horse-block and stood again on the corner of the alley, watching and listening. It grew later. The hours passed. Trina kept at her post. The noise of approaching footfalls grew less and less frequent. Little by little Polk Street dropped back into solitude. Eleven o'clock struck from the powerhouse clock. Lights were extinguished. At one o'clock the cable stopped, leaving an abrupt and numbing silence in the air. All at once it seemed very still. The only noises were the occasional footfalls of a policeman and the persistent calling of ducks and geese in the closed market across the way. The street was asleep. When it is night and dark and one is awake and alone, one's thoughts take the color of the surroundings, become gloomy, somber, and very dismal. All at once an idea came to Trina, a dark, terrible idea, worse even than the idea of Mckteig's death. Oh, no! she cried. Oh, no! it isn't true. But suppose—suppose! She left her post and hurried back to the house. No. No, she was saying under her breath. It isn't possible. Maybe he's even come home already by another way. But suppose—suppose—suppose! She ran up the stairs, opened the door of the room, and paused, out of breath. The room was dark and empty. With cold, trembling fingers she lighted the lamp, and turning about looked at her trunk. The lock was burst. No. No. No! cried Trina. It's not true. It's not true. She dropped on her knees before the trunk, and tossed back the lid, and plunged her hands down into the corner underneath her wedding dress, where she always kept the savings. The brass matchsafe and the shimmy-skin bag were there. They were empty. Trina flung herself full-length upon the floor, burying her face and her arms, rolling her head from side to side. Her voice rose to a wail. No. No. No. It's not true. It's not true. It's not true. Oh, he couldn't have done it. Oh, how could he have done it? All my money, all my little savings, and deserted me. He's gone. My money's gone, my dear money. My dear, dear gold pieces that I've worked so hard for. Oh, to have deserted me, gone for good, gone and never coming back, gone with my gold pieces, gone, gone, gone. I'll never see them again, and I've worked so hard, so, so hard for him, for them. No. No. No. It's not true. It is true. What will become of me now? Oh, if you'll only come back, you can have all the money. Have of it. Oh, give me back my money. Give me back my money and I'll forgive you. You can leave me then if you want to. Oh, my money. Mack, Mack, you've gone for good. You don't love me anymore, and now I'm a beggar. My money's gone, my husband's gone, gone, gone, gone. Her grief was terrible. She dug her nails into her scalp, and clutching the heavy coils over thick black hair tore it again and again. She struck her forehead with her clenched fists. Her little body shook from head to foot with the violence of her sobbing. She ground her small teeth together, and beat her head upon the floor with all her strength. Her hair was uncoiled and hanging a tangled disheveled mass far below her waist. Her dress was torn, a spot of blood was upon her forehead. Her eyes were swollen. Her cheeks flamed vermilion from the fever that raged in her veins. Oldness Baker found her thus towards five o'clock the next morning. What had happened between one o'clock and dawn of that fearful night Trina never remembered. She could only recall herself as in a picture kneeling before her broken and rifled trunk, and then, weeks later, so it seemed to her, she woke to find herself in her own bed with an iced bandage to bat her forehead and the little old dressmaker at her side, stroking her hot, dry palm. The facts of the matter were that the German woman who lived below had been awakened some hours after midnight but the sounds of Trina's weeping. She had come upstairs and into the room to find Trina stretched face downward upon the floor, half conscious and sobbing, in the throes of an hysteria for which there was no relief. The woman, terrified, had called her husband, and between them they had got Trina upon the bed. Then the German woman happened to remember that Trina had friends at the big flat nearby, and had sent her husband to fetch the retired dressmaker, while she herself remained behind to undress Trina and put her to bed. Miss Baker had come over at once, and began to cry herself at the sight of the dentist's poor little wife. She did not stop to ask what the trouble was, and indeed it would have been useless to attempt to get any coherent explanation from Trina at that time. Miss Baker had sent the German woman's husband to get some ice at one of the all-night restaurants of the street, had kept cold, wet towels on Trina's head, had combed and recombed her wonderful thick hair, and had sat down by the side of the bed, holding her hot hand with its poor, maimed fingers, waiting patiently until Trina should be able to speak. Towards morning Trina awoke, or perhaps it was a mere regaining of consciousness, looked a moment at Miss Baker, then about the room until her eyes fell upon her trunk with its broken lock, then she turned over upon the pillow and began to sob again. She refused to answer any of the little dressmaker's questions, shaking her head violently, her face hidden in the pillow. By breakfast time her fever had increased to such a point that Miss Baker took matters into her own hands and had the German woman call a doctor. He arrived some twenty minutes later. He was a big, kindly fellow who lived over the drug store on the corner. He had a deep voice and a tremendous striding gait less suggestive of a physician than of a sergeant of a cavalry troop. By the time of his arrival little Miss Baker had divide intuitively the entire trouble. She heard the doctor swinging tramp in the entry below and heard the German woman saying, Right up their stairs, at their back of their hall, their room mit der door open. Miss Baker met the doctor at the landing. She told him in a whisper of the trouble. Her husbands deserted her, I'm afraid, doctor, and took all of her money. A good deal of it. It's about killed the poor child. She was out of her head a good deal of the night and now she's got a raging fever. The doctor and Miss Baker returned to the room and entered, closing the door. The big doctor stood for a moment, looking down at Trina, rolling her head from side to side upon the pillow. Her face scarlet, her enormous mane of hair, spread out on either side of her. The little dressmaker remained at his elbow, looking from him to Trina. Poor little woman, said the doctor. Poor little woman. Miss Baker pointed to the trunk, whispering, See, there's where she kept her savings. See, he broke the lock. Well, Mrs. McTig, said the doctor, sitting down by the bed, and taking Trina's wrist. A little fever, eh? Trina opened her eyes and looked at him, and then at Miss Baker. She did not seem in the least surprised at the unfamiliar faces. She appeared to consider it all as a matter of course. Yes, she said, with a long, tremulous breath. I have a fever in my head. My head aches and aches. The doctor prescribed rest and mild opiates. Then his eye fell upon the fingers of Trina's right hand. He looked at them sharply. A deep red glow, unmistakable to a physician's eyes, was upon some of them, extending from the fingertips up to the second knuckle. Hello, he exclaimed. What's the matter here? In fact, something was very wrong indeed. For days Trina had noticed it. The fingers of her right hand had swollen as never before, aching and discolored. Cruely lacerated by McTig's brutality as they were, she had nevertheless gone on about her work on the Noah's Ark animals, constantly in contact with the non-poisonous paint. She told as much to the doctor in answer to his questions. He shook his head with an exclamation. Why, this is blood poisoning, you know, he told her. The worst kind. You'll have to have those fingers amputated beyond a doubt or lose the entire hand, or even worse. And my work, exclaimed Trina. End of chapter 18