 Chapter 5 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 5. Wednesday morning, Washington's birthday, McTeague rose very early and shaved himself. Besides the six mournful concertina heirs, the dentist knew one song. Whenever he shaved, he sung this song, never at any other time. His voice was a bellowing roar, enough to make the window sashes rattle. Just now he woke up all the lodgers in his hall with it. It was a lamentable wail. No one to love, none to caress, left all alone in this world's wilderness. As he paused to strop his razor, Marcus came into his room, half-dressed, a startling phantom in red flannels. Marcus often ran back and forth between his room and the dentist's parlors in all sorts of undress. Old Miss Baker had seen him thus several times through her half-open door as she sat in her room listening and waiting. The old dressmaker was shocked out of all expression. She was outraged, offended, pressing her lips, putting up her head. She talked of complaining to the landlady. And Mr. Granus right next door, too, you can understand how trying it is for both of us. She would come out in the hall after one of these apparitions, her little false curls shaking, talking loud and shrill to anyone in reach of her boys. Well, Marcus would shout, shut your door then, if you don't want to see. Look out now, here I come again, not even a porous plaster on me this time. On this Wednesday morning Marcus called McTeague out into the hall to the head of the stairs that led down to the street door. Come and listen to Maria, Mac, said he. Maria sat on the next to the lowest step, her chin propped by her two fists. The red-headed Polish Jew, the ragman Zerkow, stood in the doorway. He was talking eagerly. Now, just once more, Maria, he was saying, tell it to us just once more. Maria's voice came up the stairway in a monotone. Marcus and McTeague caught a phrase from time to time. There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold. Just that punch-ball was worth a fortune. Thick, fat, red gold. Get on to that, will you? observed Marcus. The old skin has got her started on the plate. Ain't they a pair for you? And it rang like bells, didn't it? prompted Zerkow. Sweeter in church bells and clearer. Ah, sweeter in bells. Wasn't that punch-ball awful heavy? All you could do to lift it. I know. Oh, I know! answered Zerkow, clawing at his lips. Where did it all go to? Where did it go? Maria shook her head. It's gone, anyhow. Ah, gone, gone. Think of it. The punch-ball gone, and the engraved ladle, and the plates and goblets. What a sight it must have been all heaped together. It was a wonderful sight. Yes, wonderful. It must have been. On the lower steps of that cheap flat, the Mexican woman and the red-haired Polish Jew mused long over that vanished half-mythical gold plate. Marcus and the dentists spent Washington's birthday across the bay. The journey over was one long agony to mcteague. He shook with a formless, uncertain dread. A dozen times he would have turned back had not Marcus been with him. The stolid giant was as nervous as a schoolboy. He fancied that his call upon Miss Sipa was an outrageous affront. She would freeze him with a stare. He would be shown the door, would be ejected, disgraced. As they got off the local train at B Street Station, they suddenly collided with the whole tribe of Sipas, the mother, father, three children, and Trina, equipped for one of their eternal picnics. They were to go to Schwetzen Park within walking distance of the station. They were grouped about four lunch baskets. One of the children, a little boy, held a black greyhound by a rope around its neck. Trina wore a blue cloth skirt, a striped shirt waist, and a white sailor. About her round waist was a belt of imitation alligator skin. At once Mrs. Sipa began to talk to Marcus. He had written of their coming, but the picnic had been decided upon after the arrival of his letter. Mrs. Sipa explained this to him. She was an immense old lady with a pink face and wonderful hair, absolutely white. The Sipas were a German Swiss family. We go to Dörr Park, Schwetzen Park, meet all them children, a little ex-gurgeon, and not so. We breathe their freshest air, a celebration, a picnic they derseyshore on. Ack, that will be so gay, ah? You bet it will. It'll be out of sight, cried Marcus, enthusiastic in an instant. This is my friend Dr. McTeague I wrote to you about, Mrs. Sipa. Ack, der Dr., cried Mrs. Sipa. McTeague was presented, shaking hands gravely as Marcus shouldered him from one to the other. Mr. Sipa was a little man of a military aspect, full of importance, taking himself very seriously. He was a member of a rifle team. Over his shoulder was slung a Springfield rifle, while his breast was decorated by five bronze medals. Trina was delighted. McTeague was dumbfounded. She appeared positively glad to see him. How do you do, Dr. McTeague, she said, smiling at him and shaking his hand. It's nice to see you again. Look, see how fine my feeling is. She lifted a corner of her lip and showed him the clumsy gold bridge. Meanwhile, Mr. Sipa toiled and perspired. Upon him devolved the responsibility of the excursion. He seemed to consider it a matter of vast importance, a veritable expedition. August, he shouted to the little boy with the black greyhound. You will derhound on basket number three, Kerry. Der Turvens, he added, calling to the two smallest boys, who were dressed exactly alike, will relief one another mit der Kampfstuhl on basket number four. That is comprehend, hey? When we make der start, you children will end der advance march. That is your orders. But we do not start, he exclaimed, excitedly. We remain. Akkots Selina, who does not arrive. Selina, it appeared, was a niece of Mrs. Sipas. They were on the point of starting without her when she suddenly arrived, very much out of breath. She was a slender, unhealthy-looking girl, who overworked herself giving lessons in hand painting at twenty-five cents an hour. McTeague was presented. They all began to talk at once, filling the little station house with a confusion of tongues. Attention! cried Mr. Sipa, his gold-headed cane in one hand, his springfield in the other. Attention! We depart! The four little boys moved off ahead. The greyhound suddenly began to bark and tug at his leash. The others picked up their bundles. Forwards! shouted Mr. Sipa, waving his rifle and assuming the attitude of a lieutenant of infantry leading a charge. The party set off down the railroad track. Mrs. Sipa walked with her husband, who constantly left her side to shout an order up and down the line. Marcus followed with Selina. McTeague found himself with Trina at the end of the procession. We go off on these picnics almost every week, said Trina, by way of a beginning, and almost every holiday, too. It is a custom. Yes, yes, a custom, answered McTeague, nodding. A custom? That's the word. Don't you think these picnics are fine fun, Dr. McTeague? She continued. You take your lunch, you leave the dirty city all day, you race about in the open air, and when lunchtime comes, oh, aren't you hungry? And the woods and the grass smell so fine. I don't know, Mrs. Sipa. He answered, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground between the rails. I never went on a picnic. Never went on a picnic, she cried, astonished. Oh, you'll see what fun we'll have. In the morning father and the children dig clams in the mud by the shore, and we bake them. And, oh, there's thousands of things to do. Once I went sailing on the bay, said McTeague. It was in a tugboat. We fished off the heads. I caught three codfishes. I'm afraid to go out on the bay, answered Trina, shaking her head. Sailboats tip over so easy. A cousin of mine, Selena's brother, was drowned one decoration day. They never found his body. Can you swim, Dr. McTeague? I used to at the mine. At the mine? Oh, yes, I remember. Marcus told me you were a minor once. I was a car boy. All the car boys used to swim in the reservoir by the ditch every Thursday evening. One of them was bit by a rattlesnake once while he was dressing. He was a Frenchman, named Andrew. He swelled up and began to twitch. Oh, how I hate snakes. They're so crawly and graceful, but just the same. I like to watch them. You know that drugstore over in town that has a showcase full of live ones? We killed the rattler with a cart whip. How far do you think you could swim? Did you ever try? Do you think you could swim a mile? A mile? I don't know. I never tried. I guess I could. I can swim a little. Sometimes we all go out to the crystal baths. The crystal baths, huh? Can you swim across the tank? Oh, I can swim all right, as long as Papa holds my chin up. Soon as he takes his hand away, down I go. Don't you hate to get water in your ears? Bathing's good for you. If the water's too warm, it isn't. It weakens you. Mr. Seeper came running down the tracks, waving his cane. To one side, he shouted, motioning them off the track. A local passenger train was just passing B Street Station, some quarter of a mile behind them. The party stood to one side to let it pass. Marcus put a nickel and two crossed pins upon the rail, and waved his hat to the passengers as the train roared past. The children shouted, shrilly. When the train was gone, they all rushed to see the nickel and the crossed pins. The nickel had been jolted off, but the pins had been flattened out so that they bore a faint resemblance to opened scissors. A great contention arose among the children for the possession of these scissors. Mr. Seeper was obliged to intervene. He reflected gravely. It was a matter of tremendous moment. The whole party halted, awaiting his decision. Attend now, he suddenly exclaimed. It will not be so soon. At the end of their day, then we shall have home gekomen. Then will it be a judge, eh? A reward of merit to him who their best behaves. It is an order. For what? That was a Sacramento train, said Marcus to Selena as they started off. It was for a fact. I know a girl in Sacramento, Trina told McTig. She's four women in a glove store, and she's got a consumption. I was in Sacramento once, observed McTig. Nearly eight years ago. Is it a nice place, as nice as San Francisco? It's hot. I practiced there for a while. I like San Francisco, said Trina, looking across the bay to where the city piled itself upon its hills. So do I, answered McTig. Do you like it better than living over here? Oh, sure. I wish we lived in the city. If you want to go across for anything, it takes up the whole day. Yes, yes, the whole day, almost. Do you know many people in the city? Do you know anybody named Oberman? That's my uncle. He has a wholesale toy store in the mission. They say he's awful rich. No, I don't know him. His stepdaughter wants to be a nun, just fancy, and Mr. Oberman won't have it. He says it would be just like burying his child. Yes, she wants to enter the convent of the Sacred Heart. Are you a Catholic, Dr. McTig? No, no I... Papa is a Catholic. He goes to Mass on the feast days once in a while. But Mama's Lutheran. The Catholics are trying to get control of the schools, observed McTig, suddenly remembering one of Marcus's political tirades. That's what cousin Mark says. We are going to send the twins to the kindergarten next month. What's the kindergarten? Oh, they teach them to make things out of straw and toothpicks. Kind of a play place to keep them off the street. There's one up on Sacramento Street, not far from Polk Street. I saw the sign. I know where. Why, Selena used to play the piano there. Does she play the piano? Oh, you ought to hear her. She plays fine. Selena's very accomplished. She paints, too. I can play on the concertina. Oh, can you? I wish you'd brought it along. Next time you will. I hope you'll come often on our picnics. You'll see what fun we'll have. Fine day for a picnic, ain't it? There ain't a cloud. That's so, exclaimed Trina, looking up. Not a single cloud. Oh, yes, there is one just over Telegraph Hill. That's smoke. No, it's a cloud. Smoke isn't white that way. It is a cloud. I knew I was right. I never say a thing unless I'm pretty sure. It looks like a dog's head. Don't it? Isn't Marcus fond of dogs? He got a new dog last week, a setter. Did he? Yes. He and I took a lot of dogs from his hospital out for a walk to the cliff house last Sunday, but we had to walk all the way home because they wouldn't follow. You've been out to the cliff house? Not for a long time. We had a picnic there one Fourth of July, but it rained. Don't you love the ocean? Yes. Yes, I like it pretty well. Oh, I'd like to go off in one of those big sailing ships. Just away and away and away, anywhere. They're different from a little yacht. I'd love to travel. Sure. So would I. Papa and Mama came over in a sailing ship. They were twenty-one days. Mama's uncle used to be a sailor. He was captain of a steamer on Lake Geneva in Switzerland. Halt! shouted Mr. Sipa, brandishing his rifle. They had arrived at the gates of the park. All at once, McTeague turned cold. He had only a quarter in his pocket. What was he expected to do? Pay for the whole party? Or for Trina and himself? Or merely buy his own ticket? And even in this latter case would a quarter be enough? He lost his wits, rolling his eyes helplessly. Then it occurred to him to feign a great abstraction, pretending not to know that the time was come to pay. He looked intently up and down the tracks. Perhaps a train was coming. Here we are, cried Trina, as they came up to the rest of the party, crowded about the entrance. Yes, yes, observed McTeague, his head in the air. Give me four bits, Mac, said Marcus, coming up. Here's where we shell out. I—I—I only got a quarter, mumbled the dentist miserably. He felt that he had ruined himself forever with Trina. What was the use of trying to win her? Destiny was against him. I only got a quarter, he stammered. He was on the point of adding that he would not go in the park. That seemed to be the only alternative. Oh, all right, said Marcus easily. I'll pay for you, and you can square with me when we go home. They filed into the park, Mr. Sipa counting them off as they entered. Ah, said Trina, with a long breath, as she and McTeague pushed through the wicket. Here we are once more, doctor. She had not appeared to notice McTeague's embarrassment. The difficulty had been tied it over somehow. Once more McTeague felt himself saved. To Durn Beach, shouted Mr. Sipa. They had checked their baskets at the peanut stand. The whole party trooped down to the seashore. The greyhound was turned loose. The children raced on ahead. From one of the larger parcels Mrs. Sipa had drawn for the small tin steamboat, Auguste's birthday present, a gaudy little toy which could be steamed up and navigated by means of an alcohol lamp. Her trial trip was to be made this morning. Give me it, give me it, shouted Auguste, dancing around his father. Not so, not so, cried Mr. Sipa, bearing it aloft. I must first do the experiment make. No, no, wailed Auguste. I want to play with it. Obey, thundered Mr. Sipa. Auguste subsided. A little jetty ran part of the way into the water. Here, after a careful study of the directions printed on the cover of the box, Mr. Sipa began to fire the little boat. I want to put it in the water, cried Auguste. Stand back, shouted his parent. You do not know so well as me, yet is danger. Meet out the tension, he will explode. I want to play with it, protested Auguste, beginning to cry. Ock, so, you cry, bebé, vociferated Mr. Sipa. Mummer, addressing Mrs. Sipa, he will so soon be bewipped, eh? I want my boat, uh, screamed Auguste, dancing. Silence, roared Mr. Sipa. The little boat began to hiss and smoke. So, observed the father, he commenced. Attention! I put him in their water. He was very excited. The perspiration dripped from the back of his neck. The little boat was launched. It hissed more furiously than ever. Clouds of steam rolled from it, but it refused to move. You do not know how she works, sobbed Auguste. I know more so much as their grossest little fool as you, cried Mr. Sipa fiercely, his face purple. You must give it to Shove, exclaimed the boy. Didn't he explode, idiot? shouted his father. All at once the boiler of the steamer blew up with a sharp crack. The little tin toy turned over and sank out of sight before anyone could interfere. Ah! Yah! Yah! yelled Auguste. It's gone! Instantly Mr. Sipa boxed his ears. There was a lamentable scene. Auguste rent the air with his outcries. His father shook him till his boots danced on the jetty, shouting into his face, Ah! idiot! Ah! imbecile! Ah! miserable! I told you he explode. Stop your cry. Stop. It is an order. Do you wish I drown you in their water, eh? Speak. Silence bebé. Mama, where is mine stick? He will der grossest whip in ever of his life receive. Little by little the boy subsided, swallowing his sobs, knuckling his eyes, gazing roofily at the spot where the boat had sunk. Dot is better so, commented Mr. Sipa, finally releasing him. Next time perhaps you will your father better believe. Now, no more. We will der glams gedig. Mama, a fire. Ah! Himmel! We have der freffer forgotten. The work of clam-digging began at once, the little boys taking off their shoes and stockings. At first Auguste refused to be comforted, and it was not until his father drove him into the water with his gold-headed cane that he consented to join the others. What a day that was for mcteague. What a never-to-be-forgotten day. He was with Trina constantly. They laughed together. She demurely. Her lips closed tight. Her little chin thrust out. Her small pale nose, with its adorable little freckles, wrinkling. He roared with all the force of his lungs, his enormous mouth distended, striking sledgehammer blows upon his knee with his clenched fist. The lunch was delicious. Trina and her mother made a clam chowder that melted in one's mouth. The lunch baskets were emptied. The party were fully two hours eating. There were huge loaves of rye bread full of grains of chickweed. There were wienerwurst and frankfurter sausages. There was unsalted butter. There were pretzels. There was colt underdone chicken, which won eight in slices, plastered with a wonderful kind of mustard that did not sting. There were dried apples that gave Mr. Sipa the hiccups. There were a dozen bottles of beer and, last of all, a crowning achievement, a marvelous go-to truffle. After lunch came tobacco. Stuffed to the eyes, mcteague drowsed over his pipe, prone on his back in the sun, while Trina, Mrs. Sipa, and Selena washed the dishes. In the afternoon Mr. Sipa disappeared. They heard the reports of his rifle on the range. The others swarmed over the park, now around the swings, now in the casino, now in the museum, now invading the merry-go-round. At half past five o'clock Mr. Sipa marshaled the party together. It was time to return home. The family insisted that Marcus and mcteague should take supper with them at their home and should stay overnight. Mrs. Sipa argued they could get no decent supper if they went back to the city at that hour. They could catch an early morning boat and reach their business in good time. The two friends accepted. The Sipas lived in a little box of a house at the foot of B Street, the first house to the right, as one went up from the station. It was two stories high, with a funny red mansard roof of oval slates. The interior was cut up into innumerable tiny rooms, some of them so small as to be hardly better than sleeping closets. In the backyard was a contrivance for pumping water from the cistern that interested mcteague at once. It was a dog wheel, a huge revolving box in which the unhappy black greyhound spent most of his waking hours. It was his kennel, he slept in it. From time to time during the day Mrs. Sipa appeared on the back doorstep, crying shrilly, hoop, hoop. She threw lumps of coal at him, waking him to his work. They were all very tired and went to bed early. After great discussion it was decided that Marcus would sleep upon the lounge in the front parlor. Trina would sleep with Auguste giving up her room to mcteague. Selena went to her home, a block or so above the Sipas. At nine o'clock Mr. Sipa showed mcteague to his room and left him to himself with a newly lighted candle. For a long time after Mr. Sipa had gone, mcteague stood motionless in the middle of the room. His elbows pressed close to his sides, looking obliquely from the corners of his eyes. He hardly dared to move. He was in Trina's room. It was an ordinary little room. A clean white matting was on the floor. Gray paper, spotted with pink and green flowers, covered the walls. In one corner, under a white netting, was a little bed. The woodwork gaily painted with knots of bright flowers. Near it, against the wall, was a black walnut bureau. A work table with spiral legs stood by the window, which was hung with a green and gold window curtain. Opposite the window the closet door stood ajar, while in the corner across from the bed was a tiny wash stand with two clean towels. And that was all, but it was Trina's room. Mcteague was in his lady's bower. It seemed to him a little nest, intimate, discreet. He felt hideously out of place. He was an intruder, he with his enormous feet, his colossal bones, his crude, brutal gestures. The mere weight of his limbs, he was sure, would crush the little bedstead like an eggshell. Then, as this first sensation wore off, he began to feel the charm of the little chamber. It was as though Trina were close by, but invisible. Mcteague felt all the delight of her presence without the embarrassment that usually accompanied it. He was near to her, nearer than he had ever been before. He saw into her daily life her little ways and manners, her habits, her very thoughts. And was there not in the air of that room a certain faint perfume that he knew that called her to his mind with marvelous vividness? As he put the candle down upon the bureau, he saw her hairbrush lying there. Instantly he picked it up, and without knowing why, held it to his face. With what a delicious odor was it redolent? That heavy, innervating odor of her hair, her wonderful, royal hair, the smell of that little hairbrush was talismanic. He had but to close his eyes to see her as distinctly as in a mirror. He saw her tiny round figure, dressed all in black, for, curiously enough, it was his very first impression of Trina that came back to him now, not the Trina of the later occasions, not the Trina of the blue cloth skirt and white sailor. He saw her as he had seen her the day that Marcus had introduced them. He saw her pale, round face, her narrow, half-open eyes, blue like the eyes of a baby, her tiny, pale ears, suggestive of anemia, the freckles across the bridge of her nose, her pale lips, and, above all, the delicious poise of the head, tipped back as though by the weight of all that hair, the poise that thrust out her chin a little with the movement that was so confiding, so innocent, so nearly infantile. McTig went softly about the room from one object to another, beholding Trina in everything he touched or looked at. He came at last to the closet door. It was a jar. He opened it wide and paused upon the threshold. Trina's clothes were hanging there, skirts and waists, jackets, and stiff white petticoats. What a vision! For an instant McTig caught his breath, spellbound. If he had suddenly discovered Trina herself there smiling at him, holding out her hands, he could hardly have been more overcome. Instantly he recognized the black dress she had worn on that famous first day. There it was, the little jacket she had carried over her arm the day he had terrified her with his blundering declaration, and still others and others. A whole group of Trina's faced him there. He went farther into the closet, touching the clothes gingerly, stroking them softly with his huge leather and palms. As he stirred them, a delicate perfume disengaged itself from the folds. Ah, that exquisite feminine odor! It was not only her hair now, it was Trina herself, her mouth, her hands, her neck, the indescribably sweet, fleshly aroma that was a part of her, pure and clean, and redolent of youth and freshness. All at once, seized with an unreasoned impulse, Mäktige opened his huge arms and gathered the little garments close to him, plunging his face deep amongst them, savoring their delicious odor with long breaths of luxury and supreme content. The picnic at Schwetzenpark decided matters. Mäktige began to call on Trina regularly Sunday and Wednesday afternoons. He took Marcus Schuler's place. Sometimes Marcus accompanied him, but it was generally to meet Selena by appointments at the sepis house. But Marcus made the most of his renunciation of his cousin. He remembered his pose from time to time. He made Mäktige unhappy and bewildered by wringing his hand, by venting sighs that seemed to tear his heart out, or by giving evidences of an infinite melancholy. What is my life? he would exclaim. What is left for me? Nothing, by damn! And when Mäktige would attempt to remonstrance, he would cry, Never mind, old man. Never mind me. Go. Be happy. I forgive you. Forgive what? Mäktige was all at sea, was harassed with the thought of some shadowy, irreparable injury he had done his friend. Oh, don't think of me! Marcus would exclaim at other times, even when Trina was by. Don't think of me. I don't count any more. I ain't in it. Marcus seemed to take great pleasure in contemplating the wreck of his life. There is no doubt he enjoyed himself hugely during these days. The Sipas were at first puzzled as well over this change of front. Trina has then a new young man, cried Mr. Sipa. First shoulder, now deductor. Eh? What a devil, I say! Weeks passed. February went. March came in very rainy, putting a stop to all their picnics and Sunday excursions. One Wednesday afternoon, in the second week in March, McTig came over to call on Trina, bringing his concertina with him, as was his custom nowadays. As he got off the train at the station, he was surprised to find Trina waiting for him. This is the first day it hasn't rained in weeks, she explained, and I thought it would be nice to walk. Sure, sure, assented McTig. B Street Station was nothing more than a little shed. There was no ticket office, nothing but a couple of whittled and carved benches. It was built close to the railroad tracks, just across which was the dirty, muddy shore of San Francisco Bay. About a quarter of a mile back from the station was the edge of the town of Oakland. Between the station and the first houses of the town lay immense salt flats, here and there broken by winding streams of black water. They were covered with the growth of wiry grass, strangely discolored in places by enormous stains of orange-yellow. Near the station, a bit of fence painted with a cigar advertisement reeled over into the mud, while under its lee lay an abandoned gravel wagon with dished wheels. The station was connected with the town by the extension of B Street, which struck across the flats geometrically straight, a file of tall poles with intervening wires marching along with it. At the station, these were headed by an iron-electric light pole that, with its supports and outriggers, looked for all the world like an upper on its hind legs. Across the flats at the fringe of the town were the dump heaps, the figures of a few Chinese rag pickers moving over them. Far to the left, the view was shut off by the immense red-brown drum of the gas works. To the right, it was bounded by the chimneys and workshops of an iron foundry. Across the railroad tracks to Seward, one saw the long stretch of black mudbank left bare by the tide, which was far out, nearly half a mile. Clouds of seagulls were forever rising and settling upon this mudbank. A wrecked and abandoned wharf crawled over it on tottering legs. Close in, an old sailboat lay cansid on her bilge. But farther on, across the yellow waters of the bay, beyond Goat Island, lay San Francisco, a blue line of hills rugged with roofs and spires. Far to the westward opened the Golden Gate, a bleak cutting in the sandhills, through which one caught a glimpse of the Pacific. The station at B Street was solitary. No trains passed at this hour except the distant rag pickers. Not a soul was in sight. The wind blew strong, carrying with it the mingled smell of salt, of tar, of dead seaweed, and of bilge. The sky hung low and brown, at long intervals a few drops of rain fell. Near the station Trina and McTeague sat on the roadbed of the tracks, at the edge of the mudbank, making the most out of the trip, enjoying the open air, the salt marshes, and the sight of the distant water. From time to time McTeague played his six mournful heirs upon his concertina. After a while they began walking up and down the tracks. McTeague talking about his profession, Trina listening, very interested and absorbed, trying to understand. For pulling the roots of the upper molars we used the cow horn forceps, continued the dentist, monotonously. We get the inside of the buccal roots and the cow horn beak over the buccal roots. That's the roots on the outside you see. Then we close the forceps, and that breaks right through the alveolus. That's the part of the socket in the jaw you understand. At another moment he told her of his one unsatisfied desire. Someday I'm going to have a big gilded tooth outside my window for a sigh. Those big gold teeth are beautiful, beautiful. Only they cost so much, I can't afford one just now. Suddenly exclaimed Trina, holding out her palm. They turned back and reached the station in a drizzle. The afternoon was closing in, dark and rainy. The tide was coming back, talking and lapping for miles along the mud bank. Far off across the flats, at the edge of the town, an electric car went by, stringing out a long row of diamond sparks on the overhead wires. Say, Miss Trina, said McTeague after a while. What's the good of waiting any longer? Why can't Trina get married? Trina still shook her head, saying no instinctively, in spite of herself. Why not? persisted McTeague. Don't you like me well enough? Yes. Then why not? Because. Ah, come on! he said. But Trina still shook her head. Ah, come on! urged McTeague. He could think of nothing else to say, repeating the same phrase over and over again to all her refusals. Ah, come on! Ah, come on! Suddenly he took her in his enormous arms, crushing down her struggle with his immense strength. Then Trina gave up, all in an instant, turning her head to his. They kissed each other, grossly, full in the mouth. A roar and a jarring of the earth suddenly grew near and passed them in a reek of steam and hot air. It was the overland with its flaming headlight on its way across the continent. The passage of the train startled them both. Trina struggled to free herself from McTeague. Oh, please! please! she pleaded on the point of tears. McTeague released her, but in that moment a slight, a barely perceptible, revulsion of feeling had taken place in him. The instant that Trina gave up, the instant she allowed him to kiss her, he thought less of her. She was not so desirable, after all. But this reaction was so faint, so subtle, so intangible, that in another moment he had doubted her feelings. Yet afterward it returned. Was there not something gone from Trina now? Was he not disappointed in her for doing the very thing for which he had longed? Was Trina the submissive, the compliant, the attainable just the same, just as delegate and adorable as Trina the inaccessible? Perhaps he dimly saw that this must be so, that it belonged to the changeless odor of things, the man desiring the woman only for what she withholds, the woman worshiping the man that which she yields up to him. With each concession gained, the man's desire cools. With every surrender made, the woman's adoration increases. But why should it be so? Trina wrenched herself free, and drew back from mactique, her little chin quivering, her face, even to the lobes of her pale ears, flushed scarlet, her narrow blue eyes brimming. Suddenly she put her head between her hands and began to sob. Say, Miss Trina, listen. Listen here, Miss Trina, cried mactique, coming forward a step. Oh, don't! she gasped, shrinking. I must go home. She cried, springing to her feet. It's late. I must, I must. Don't come with me, please. Oh, I'm so, so. She could not find any words. Let me go alone, she went on. You may, you come Sunday. Goodbye. Goodbye, said mactique. His head in a whirl at this sudden, unaccountable change. Can't I kiss you again? But Trina was firm now. When it came to his pleading, a mere matter of words, she was strong enough. No, no, you must not, she exclaimed, with energy. She was gone in another instant. The dentist, stunned, bewildered, gazed stupidly after her as she ran up the extension of B Street through the rain. But suddenly a great joy took possession of him. He had won her. Trina was to be for him, after all. An enormous smile distended his thick lips. His eyes grew wide and flashed, and he drew his breath quickly, striking his mallet-like fist upon his knee, and exclaiming under his breath, I got her by God. I got her by God. At the same time he thought better of himself, his self-respect increased enormously. The man that could win Trina Sipa was a man of extraordinary ability. Trina burst in upon her mother while the latter was setting a mousetrap in the kitchen. Oh, mama! Eh, Trina? Ah, what has happened? Trina told her in a breath. So soon? was Mrs. Sipa's first comment. Eh, well, what do you cry for, then? I don't know, wailed Trina, plucking at the end of her handkerchief. Dr. Sipa? I don't know. Well, what for you kiss him? I don't know. You don't know? You don't know? Where have your senses gone, Trina? You kissed her doctor, you cry, and you don't know. Is it Marcus, then? No, it's not cousin Mark. Didn't it must be her doctor? Trina made no answer. Eh? I... I guess so. You love him? I don't know. Mrs. Sipa set down the mousetrap with such violence that it sprung with a sharp snap. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 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 6 No, Trina did not know. Do I love him? Do I love him? A thousand times she put the question to herself during the next two or three days. At night she hardly slept, but lay broad awake for hours in her little, daily painted bed with its white netting, torturing herself with doubts and questions. At times she remembered the scene in the station with a veritable agony of shame and at other times she was ashamed to recall it with a thrill of joy. Nothing could have been more sudden, more unexpected than that surrender of herself. For over a year she had thought that Marcus would someday be her husband. They would be married, she supposed, sometime in the future. She did not know exactly when. The matter did not take definite shape in her mind. She liked cousin Mark very well, and then suddenly this crosscurrent had set in. This blond giant had appeared, this huge, stalled fellow with his immense, crude strength. She had not loved him at first, that was certain. The day he had spoken to her in his parlors, she had only been terrified. If he had confined himself to merely speaking, as did Marcus, to pleading with her, to wooing her at a distance, forestalling her wishes, showing her little attentions, sending her boxes of candy, she could have easily withstood him. But he had only to take her in his arms to crush down her struggle with his enormous strength to subdue her, conquer her by sheer brute force, and she gave up in an instant. Why? Why had she done so? Why did she feel the desire, the necessity of being conquered by a superior strength? Why did it please her? Why had it suddenly thrilled her from head to foot with a quick, terrifying gust of passion, the like of which she had never known? Never at his best had Marcus made her feel like that, and yet she had always thought she cared for cousin Mark more than for anyone else. When McTeek had all at once caught her in his huge arms, something had leaped life in her, something that had hitherto lain dormant, something strong and overpowering. It frightened her now as she thought of it, this second self that had wakened within her and that shouted and clamored for recognition. And yet, was it to be feared? Was it something to be ashamed of? Was it not after all natural, clean, spontaneous? Trina knew that she was a pure girl, knew that this sudden commotion within her carried with it no suggestion of vice. Dimly, as figures seen in a waking dream, these ideas floated through Trina's mind. It was quite beyond her to realize them clearly. She could not know what they meant. Until that rainy day by the shore of the bay, Trina had lived her life with as little self-consciousness as a tree. She was frank, straightforward, a healthy, natural human being without sex as yet. She was almost like a boy. At once there had been a mysterious disturbance. The woman within her suddenly awoke. Did she love McTeek? Difficult question. Did she choose him for better or for worse, deliberately, of her own free will? Or was Trina herself allowed even a choice in the taking of that step that was to make or mar her life? The woman is awakened, and starting from her sleep catches blindly at what first her newly opened eyes light upon. It is a spell, a witchery, ruled by chance alone, inexplicable. A fairy queen, enamored of a clown with asses' ears. McTeek had awakened the woman, and whether she would or no, she was his now irrevocably. Struggle against it as she would, she belonged to him, body and soul, for life or for death. She had not sought it. She had not desired it. The spell was laid upon her. Was it a blessing? Was it a curse? It was all one. She was his, indissolubly, for evil or for good. And he, the very act of submission that bound the woman to him forever, had made her less desirable in his eyes. Their undoing had already begun. Yet neither of them was to blame. From the first they had not sought each other. Chance had brought them face to face, and mysterious instincts as ungovernable as the winds of heaven were at work knitting their lives together. Neither of them had asked that this thing should be, that their destinies, their various souls, should be the sport of chance. If they could have known, they would have shunned the fearful risk. But they were allowed no voice in the matter. Why should it all be? It had been on a Wednesday that the scene in the B Street Station had taken place. Throughout the rest of the week, at every hour of the day, Trina asked herself the same question, Do I love him? Do I really love him? Is this what love is like? As she recalled McTeague, recalled his huge square-cut head, his salient jaw, his shock of yellow hair, his heavy, lumbering body, his slow wits, she found little to admire in him beyond his physical strength, and at such moments she shook her head decisively. No, surely she did not love him. Sunday afternoon, however, McTeague called. Trina had prepared a little speech for him. She was to tell him that she did not know what had been the matter with her that Wednesday afternoon, that she had acted like a bad girl, that she did not love him well enough to marry him, that she had told him as much once before. McTeague saw her alone in the little front parlor. The instant she appeared he came straight towards her. She saw what he was bent upon doing. Wait a minute, she cried, putting out her hands. Wait! You don't understand. I have got something to say to you. She might as well have talked to the wind. McTeague put aside her hands with a single gesture, and gripped her to him in a bare-like embrace that all but smothered her. Trina was but a reed before that giant strength. McTeague turned her face to the wind upon the mouth. Where was all Trina's resolve then? Where was her carefully prepared little speech? Where was all her hesitation and torturing doubts of the last few days? She clasped McTeague's huge red neck with both her slender arms. She raised her adorable little chin and kissed him in return, exclaiming, Oh, I do love you. I do love you. Never afterward were the two so happy as at that moment. A little later in that same week, McTeague were taking lunch at the car conductor's coffee joint the former suddenly exclaimed, Say, Mack, now that you've got Trina, you ought to do more for her. By damn, you ought too for a fact. Why don't you take her out somewhere, to the theatre, or somewhere? You ain't on to your job. Naturally, McTeague had told Marcus of his success with Trina. Marcus had taken on a grand air. You've got her, have you? Well I'm glad of it, old man. I am for a fact. I know you'll be happy with her. I know how I would have been. I forgive you. Yes, I forgive you freely. McTeague had not thought of taking Trina to the theatre. You think I ought to, Mark? He inquired, hesitating. Marcus answered, with his mouth full of suet pudding. Why, of course, that's the proper caper. Well, well that's so. The theatre, that's the word. Take her to the variety show at the Orpheum. There's a good show there this week. You'll have to take Mrs. Sipa too, of course, he added. Marcus was not sure of himself as regarded certain proprieties, nor for that matter, were any of the people of the little world of Polk Street. The shop girls, the plumbers' apprentices, the small trades people, and their like, whose social position was not clearly defined, could never be sure how far they could go, and yet preserve their respectability. When they wished to be proper, they invariably overdid the thing. It was not as if they belonged to the tough element, who had no appearances to keep up. Polk Street rubbed elbows with the avenue one block above. There were certain limits which its dwellers could not overstep, but unfortunately for them these limits were poorly defined. They could never be sure of themselves. At an unguarded moment they might be taken for toughs, so they generally aired in the other direction and were absurdly formal. No people have a keener eye for the amenities than those whose social position is not assured. Oh, sure. We'll have to take her mother, said Marcus. It wouldn't be the proper racket, if you didn't. McTig undertook the affair. It was nordeal. Never in his life had he been so perturbed, so horribly anxious. He called upon Trina the following Wednesday and made arrangements. Mrs. Sipa asked if little August might be included. It would console him for the loss of his steamboat. Sure, sure, said McTig. August, too. Everybody, he added, vaguely. We always have to leave so early, complained Trina, in order to catch the last boat. Just when it's becoming interesting. At this, McTig, acting upon a suggestion of Marcus' shoulders, insisted they should stay at the flat overnight. Marcus and the dentist would give up their rooms to them and sleep at the dog hospital. There was a bed there in the sick ward that old Grannis sometimes occupied when a bad case needed watching. All at once McTig had an idea, a veritable inspiration. And we'll, we'll have. What's the matter with having something to eat afterward in my parlours? Very good, commented Mrs. Sipa, beer, eh? And some tamales. Oh, I love tamales, exclaimed Trina, clasping her hands. McTig returned to the city, rehearsing his instructions over and over. The theatre party began to assume tremendous proportions. First of all, he was to get the seats, the third or fourth row from the front, on the left-hand side, so as to be out of the hearing of the drums in the orchestra. He must make arrangements about the rooms with Marcus, must get in the beer, but not the tamales, must buy for himself a white long tie, so Marcus directed, must look to it that Maria Makapa put his room in perfect order, and finally must meet the Sipas at the ferry slip at half past seven the following Monday night. The real labour of the affair began with the buying of the tickets. At the theatre, McTig got into wrong entrances, was sent from one wicked to another, was bewildered, confused, misunderstood directions, was at one moment suddenly convinced that he had not enough money with him and started to return home. Finally, he found himself at the box office wicked. Is it here to buy your seats? How many? Is it here? What night do you want them? Yes, sir, here's the place. McTig gravely delivered himself of the formula he had been reciting for the last dozen hours. I want four seats for Monday night in the fourth row at the front and on the right hand side. Right hand as you face the house or as you face the stage? McTig was dumbfounded. I want to be on the right hand side, he insisted, stolidly, adding, in order to be away from the drums. Well, the drums are on the right of the orchestra as you face the stage, shouted the other impatiently. You want to the left then as you face the house. I want to be on the right hand side, persisted the dentist. Without award the seller threw out four tickets to the magnificent, supercilious gesture. There's four seats on the right hand side then, and you're right up against the drums. But I don't want to be near the drums, protested McTig, beginning to perspire. Do you know what you want at all? Said the ticket seller with calmness, thrusting his head at McTig. The dentist knew that he had hurt this young man's feelings. I want I want, he stammered. The seller slammed down a plan of the house in front of him and began to explain, excitedly. It was the one thing lacking to complete McTig's confusion. These are your seats, finished the seller, shoving the tickets into McTig's hands. These are the fourth row from the front and away from the drums. Now are you satisfied? Are they on the right hand side? I want on the right. No. I want on the left. I want... I don't know. I don't know. The seller roared. McTig moved slowly away, gazing stupidly at the blue slips of pasteboard. Two girls took his place at the wicket. In another moment McTig came back, peering over the girl's shoulders and calling to the seller. Are these for Monday night? The other disdain replied. McTig retreated again timidly, thrusting the tickets into his immense wallet. For a moment he stood thoughtful on the steps of the entrance. Then all at once he became enraged. He did not know exactly why. Somehow he felt himself slighted. Once more he came back to the wicket. You can make small of me. He shouted over the girl's shoulders. You... you can make small of me. I'll thump you in the head. You little... you little... you little... little... little pup. The ticket seller shrugged his shoulders weirdly. A dollar and a half he said to the two girls. McTig glared at him and breathed loudly. Finally he decided to let the matter drop. He moved away, but on the steps was once more seized with a sense of injury and outraged dignity. You can't make small of me. He called back a last time, whacking his head and shaking his fist. I will... I will... I will... yes, I will. He went off muttering. At last Monday night came. McTig met the Sipas at the ferry, dressed in a black Prince Albert coat and his best slight blue trousers and wearing the made-up long necktie that Marcus had selected for him. Trina was very pretty in the black dress that McTig knew so well. She wore a pair of new gloves. Mrs. Sipa had on Lyle thread mitts and carried two bananas and an orange in a net reticule. For Auguste, she confided to him. Auguste was in a fontleroy costume, very much too small for him. Already he had been crying. Would you believe, doctor, that baby has torn his stuck-in already? Walking their front you, stop crying. Where is that policeman? At the door of the theater, McTig was suddenly seized with a panic terror. He had lost the tickets. He tore through his pockets, ransacked his wallet. They were nowhere to be found. All at once he remembered and with a gasp of relief removed his hat and took them out from beneath the sweatband. The party entered and took their places. It was absurdly early. The lights were all darkened. The ushers stood under the galleries and groups, the empty auditorium echoing with their noisy talk. Occasionally a waiter with his tray and clean white aprons sauntered up and down the aisle. Directly in front of them was the great iron curtain of the stage, painted with all manner of advertisements. From behind this came a noise of hammering and a vocational loud voices. While waiting, they studied their programs. First was an overture by the orchestra, after which came the Gleesons in their mirth-moving musical farce entitled McMonagall's Courtship. This was to be followed by the Lamont sisters, Winnie and Violet, Serio Comics and Skirt Dancers. And after this came a great array of other artists and specialty performers, musical wonders, acrobats, lightning artists, ventriloquists and last of all, the feature of the evening, the crowning scientific achievement of the 19th century, the Kinetoscope. McTeague was excited, dazzled. In five years he had not been twice to the theater. Now he beheld himself inviting his girl and her mother to accompany him. He began to feel that he was a man of the world. He ordered a cigar. Meanwhile the house was filling up. A few side brackets were turned on. The ushers ran up and down the aisles, stubs of tickets between their thumb and finger. And from every part of the auditorium could be heard the sharp clapped clapping of the seats as the ushers flipped them down. A buzz of talk arose. In the gallery, a street gayman whistled shrilly and called to some friends on the other side of the house. Are they going to begin pretty soon, Ma? Window gooseed for the fifth or sixth time, adding, Say, Ma, can't I have some candy? A cadaverous little boy had appeared in their aisle chanting, French mixed candies, popcorn, peanuts and candy. The orchestra entered, each man crawling out from an opening under the stage, hardly larger than the gate of a rabbit hutch. At every instant now the crowd increased. There were a but few seats that were not taken. The waiters hurried up and down the aisles, their trays laden with beer glasses. A smell of cigar smoke filled the air, and soon a faint blue haze rose from all corners of the house. Ma, when are they going to begin? cried August. As he spoke, the iron advertisement curtain rose, disclosing the curtain proper underneath. This latter curtain was quite an affair. Upon it was painted a wonderful picture. A flight of marble steps led down to a stream of water. Two white swans, their necks arched like the capital letter S, floated about. At the head of the marble steps were two vases filled with red and yellow flowers, while at the foot was moored a gondola. This gondola was full of red velvet rugs that hung over the side and trailed in the water. In the prow of the gondola, a young man in vermilion tights held a mandolin in his left hand, and gave his right to a girl in white satin. A King Charles spaniel dragging a leading string in the shape of a huge pink sash followed the girl. Seven scarlet roses were scattered upon the two lowest steps, and eight floated in the water. Ain't that pretty Mac? exclaimed Trina, turning to the dentist. Ma, ain't they going to begin now? Wow! wind-out-goosed. Suddenly the lights all over the house blazed up. Ah! said everybody, all at once. Ain't it crowded? murmured Mrs. Sipa. Every seat was taken. Many were even standing up. I always like it better when there is a crowd, said Trina. She was in great spirits that evening. Her round, pale face was positively pink. The orchestra banged away at the overture, suddenly finishing with a great flourish of violins. A short pause followed. Then the orchestra played a quick step-strain, and the curtain rose on an interior furnished with two red chairs and a green sofa. A girl in a short blue dress and black stockings entered in a hurry and began to dust the two chairs. She was in a great temper, talking very fast, disclaiming against the new lodger. It appeared that this latter never paid his rent, that he was given to late hours. Then she went down to the footlights and began to sing in a tremendous voice, horse and flat, almost like a man's. The chorus of a feeble originality ran, Oh, how happy I will be when my darlings face I'll see. Oh, tell him for to meet me in the moonlight, down where the golden lilies bloom. The orchestra played the tune of this chorus a second time, with certain variations while the girl danced to it. She sidled to one side of the stage and kicked, then sidled to the other and kicked again. As she finished with the song, a man, evidently the lodger in question, came in. Instantly mcteague exploded in a roar of laughter. The man was intoxicated. His hat was knocked in. One end of his collar was unfastened and stuck up into his face. His watch chain dangled from his pocket and a yellow satin slipper was tied to a buttonhole of his vest. His nose was vermilion. One eye was black and blue. After a short dialogue with the girl, a third actor appeared. He was dressed like a little boy, the girl's younger brother. He wore an immense turndown collar and was continually doing hand springs and wonderful back-summer salts. The act devolved upon these three people, the lodger making love to the girl in the short blue dress, the boy playing all manner of tricks upon him, giving him tremendous digs in the ribs or slaps upon the back that made him cough, pulling chairs from under him, running on all fours between his legs and upsetting him, knocking him over at the tune moments. Every one of his faults was accentuated by a bang upon the bass drum. The whole humor of the act seemed to consist in the tripping up of the intoxicated lodger. This horse played delighted McTeague beyond measure. He roared and shouted every time the lodger went down, slapping his knee, wagging his head. Auguste crowed shrilly, clapping his hands and continually asking, What did he say, Ma? What did he say? Mississippi laughed immoderately, her huge fat face shaking like a mountain of jelly. She exclaimed from time to time, Ah, God, that fool! Even Trina was moved, laughing demurely, her lips closed, putting one hand with its new glove to her mouth. The performance went on. Now it was the musical marvels, two men extravagantly made up as Negro minstrels with immense shoes and plaid vests. They seemed to be able to wrestle a tune out of almost anything. Glass bottles, cigar box fiddles, strings of strings, even graduated brass tubes, which they rubbed with resin to fingers. McTeague was stupefied with admiration. That's what you call musicians, he announced gravely. Home, sweet home, played upon a trombone. Think of that. Art could go no farther. The acrobats left him breathless. They were dazzling young men with beautifully parted hair, continually making graceful gestures to the audience. In one of them, the dentist fancied he saw a strong resemblance to the boy who tormented the intoxicated lodger and who had turned such marvelous somersaults. Trina could not bear to watch their antics. She turned away her head with a little shutter. It always makes me sick, she explained. The beautiful young lady, the society contralto in evening dress who sang the sentimental songs and carried the sheets of music at which she never looked pleased McTeague less. Trina, however, was captivated. She grew pensive over, you do not love me, no, bid me goodbye and go, and split her new gloves in her enthusiasm when it was finished. Don't you love sad music, Mac? She murmured. Then came the two comedians. They talked with fearful rapidity. Their wit and repartee seemed inexhaustible. As I was going down the street yesterday, ah, as you were going down the street, all right. I saw a girl at a window. You saw a girl at a window. And this girl, she was a corker. Ah, as you were going down the street yesterday you saw a girl at a window. And this girl, she was a corker. All right, go on. The other comedian went on. The joke was suddenly evolved. A certain phrase led to a song which was sung with lightning rapidity, each performer making precisely the same gestures at precisely the same instant. They were irresistible. McTeague, though he caught but a third of the jokes, could have listened all night. After the comedians had gone out, the iron advertisement curtain was let down. It was now, said McTeague, bewildered. It's the intermission of 15 minutes now. The musicians disappeared through the rabbit hutch and the audience stirred and stretched itself. Most of the young men let their seats. During this intermission, McTeague and his party had refreshments. Mrs. Sepa and Trina had Queen Charlotte's. McTeague drank a glass of beer, Auguste ate the orange and one of the bananas. He begged for a glass of lemonade, which was finally given him. Just to keep quiet, observed Mrs. Sepa. But almost immediately after drinking his lemonade, Auguste was seized with a sudden restlessness. He twisted and wrinkled in his seat, swinging his legs violently, looking about him with eyes full of a vague distress. At length, just as the musicians were returning, he stood up and whispered energetically in his mother's ear. Mrs. Sepa was exasperated at once. No. No, she cried, reseeding him brusquely. The performance was resumed. A lightning artist appeared, drawing caricatures and portraits with incredible swiftness. He even went so far as to ask for subjects from the audience and the names of prominent men were shouted to him from the gallery. He drew portraits of the President, of Grant, of Washington, of Napoleon Bonaparte, of Bismarck, of Garibaldi, of P.T. Barnum. And so the evening passed, the hall grew very hot and the smoke of innumerable cigars made the eyes smart. A thick blue mist hung low over the heads of the audience. The air was full of varied smells, the smell of stale cigars, of flat beer, of orange peel, of gas, of sachet powders, and of cheap perfumery. One artist after another came upon the stage. McTig's attention never wandered for a minute. Trina and her mother enjoyed themselves hugely. At every moment they made comments to one another, their eyes never leaving the stage. Ain't that fool juice too funny? That's a pretty song. Don't you like that kind of song? Wonderful. It's wonderful. Yes, yes, wonderful. That's the word. August, however, lost interest. He stood up in his place, his back to the stage, chewing a piece of orange peel and watching a little girl in her father's lap across the aisle, his eyes fixed in a glassy ox-like stare. But he was uneasy. He danced from one foot to the other, and at intervals appealed in hoarse whispers to his mother, who disdained an answer. Ma, he whined, abstractedly chewing his orange peel, staring at the little girl. Ma, say, Ma, at times his monotonous plaint reached his mother's consciousness. She suddenly realized what this was that was annoying her. August, will you sit down? She caught him up all at once and jammed him down into his place. Be quiet, then. Look, listen at their young girls. Three young women and a young man who played a zither occupied the stage. They were dressed in Tyra Lee's costume. They were yodlers and sang in German about mountaintops and bold hunters and the like. The yodeling chorus was a marvel of flute-like modulations. The girls were really pretty and were not made up in the least. Their turn had a great success. Mrs. Sipa wasn't tranced. Instantly she remembered her girlhood and her native Swiss village. Ah, dot is heavenly, just like their old country. My grandmother used to be one of their most famous yodlers. When I was little I have seen them just like that. Ma began August fretfully as soon as the yodlers had departed. He could not keep still an instant. He twisted from side to side, swinging his legs with incredible swiftness. Ma, I want to go home. Behave, exclaimed his mother, shaking him by the arm. Look, their little girl is watching you. This is the last time I take you to Der Ble, you see. I don't even know what I'm saying. I think I'm here. I'm almost there. I'm almost there. I can't hold it. I'm almost there. I'm just taking you to Der Ble and I'm just passing you through the dance floor. Go, go, go. Let the music go on and I'll be right back. I'm on my way, I'm on my way. this. It's all a drick," exclaimed Mrs. Sipa, with sudden conviction. I ain't no fool. That's nothing but a drick. Well, of course, Mama," exclaimed Trina. It's—but Mrs. Sipa put her head in the air. I'm too old to be fooled, she persisted. It's a drick. Nothing more could be got out of her than this. The party stayed to the very end of the show, though the Connecticut scope was the last number but one on the program, and fully half the audience left immediately afterward. However, while the unfortunate Irish comedian went through his act to the backs of the departing people, Mrs. Sipa woke Auguste very cross and sleepy, and began getting her things together. As soon as he was awake, Auguste began fidgeting again. Save their program, Trina, whispered Mrs. Sipa. Take it home to Popper. Where is their hat of Auguste? Have you got my handkerchief, Trina? But at this moment a dreadful accident happened to Auguste. His distress reached its climax, his fortitude collapsed. What a misery! It was a veritable catastrophe, deplorable, lamentable—a thing beyond words. For a moment he gazed wildly about him, helpless and petrified with astonishment and terror. Then his grief found utterance, and the closing strains of the orchestra were mingled with a prolonged wail of infinite sadness. Auguste, what is it? cried his mother, eyeing him with dawning suspicion. Then suddenly, what have you done? You have ruined your new vuntlerly costume. Her face blazed. Without more ado she smacked him soundly. Then it was that Auguste touched the limit of his misery. His unhappiness, his horrible discomfort, his utter wretchedness was complete. He filled the air with his doleful outcries. The more he was smacked and shaken, the louder he wept. What—what is the matter? inquired Mctig. Trina's face was scarlet. Nothing—nothing! she exclaimed hastily, looking away. Come, we must be going. It's about over. The end of the show and the breaking up of the audience tied it over the embarrassment of the moment. The party filed out at the tail end of the audience. Already the lights were being extinguished, and the ushers spreading drugging over the upholstered seats. Mctig and the Sipas took an uptown car that would bring them near Polk Street. The car was crowded, Mctig and Auguste were obliged to stand. The little boy fretted to be taken in his mother's lap, but Mrs. Sipa emphatically refused. On their way home they discussed the performance. I—I like best der Yodlers. Ah, the soloist was the best, the lady who sang those sad songs. Wasn't—wasn't that magic lantern wonderful, where the figures moved? Wonderful—ah, wonderful. And wasn't that first act funny, where the fellow fell down all the time, and that musical act, and the fellow with the burnt cork face who played it nearer my god to thee on the beer-bottles? They got off at Polk Street and walked up a block to the flat. The street was dark and empty. Opposite the flat, in the back of the deserted market, the ducks and geese were calling persistently. As they were buying their tamales from the half-breed Mexican at the street corner, Mctig observed, Marcus ain't gone to bed yet. See, there's a light in his window, there, he exclaimed at once. I forgot the door-key—well, Marcus can let us in. Hardly had he rung the bell at the street door of the flat when the bolt was shot back. In the hall at the top of the long, narrow staircase, there was the sound of a great scurrying. Maria Makapa stood there, her hand upon the rope that drew the bolt. Marcus was at her side. Old Granus was in the background, looking over their shoulders, while little Miss Baker leaned over the banisters, a strange man in a drab overcoat at her side. As Mctig's party stepped into the doorway, a half-dozen voices cried, Yes, it's them. Is that you, Mack? Is that you, Miss Sipa? Is your name Trina Sipa? Then, shriller than all the rest, Maria Makapa screamed, Oh, Miss Sipa, come up here quick. Your lottery ticket has won five thousand dollars. What nonsense, answered Trina. Ah, gut, what is it? cried Miss Sipa, misunderstanding, supposing a calamity. What, what, what? stammered the dentist, confused by the lights, the crowded stairway, the medley of voices. The party reached the landing. The others surrounded them. Marcus alone seemed to rise to the occasion. Let me be the first to congratulate you, he cried, catching Trina's hand. Everyone was talking at once. Miss Sipa, Miss Sipa, your ticket has won five thousand dollars, cried Maria. Don't you remember the lottery ticket I sold you in Dr. Mctig's office? Trina almost screamed her mother, five thousand dollars, five thousand dollars, if Papa were only here. What is it? What is it? exclaimed Mctig, rolling his eyes. What are you going to do with it, Trina? inquired Marcus. You're a rich woman, my dear, said Miss Baker, her little false curls quivering with excitement, and I'm glad for your sake. Let me kiss you, to think I was in the room when you bought the ticket. Oh, oh! interrupted Trina, shaking her head. There is a mistake. There must be. Why? Why should I win five thousand dollars? It's nonsense. No mistake, no mistake! screamed Maria. Your number was four zero zero zero one two. Here it is in the paper this evening. I remember it well, because I keep an account. But I know you're wrong, answered Trina, beginning to tremble in spite of herself. Why should I win? Eh? Why shouldn't you? cried her mother. In fact, why shouldn't she? The idea suddenly occurred to Trina. After all, it was not a question of effort or merit on her part. Why should she suppose a mistake? What if it were true this wonderful Philip of Fortune striking in there like some chance-driven bolt? Oh, do you think so? She gasped. The stranger in the drab overcoat came forward. It's the agent, cried two or three voices simultaneously. I guess you're one of the lucky ones, Miss Sipa, he said. I suppose you have kept your ticket. Yes, yes. Four three, aughts twelve. I remember. That's right, admitted the other. Present your ticket at the local branch office as soon as possible. The address is printed on the back of the ticket, and you'll receive a check on our bank for five thousand dollars. Your number will have to be verified on our official list, but there's hardly a chance of a mistake. I congratulate you. All at once a great shrill of gladness surged up in Trina. She was to possess five thousand dollars. She was carried away with the joy of her good fortune, a natural spontaneous joy, the gaiety of a child with a new and wonderful toy. Oh, I've won! I've won! I've won! She cried, clapping her hands. Mama, think of it. I've won five thousand dollars just by buying a ticket. Mack, what do you say to that? I've got five thousand dollars. August, do you hear what's happened to your sister? Kiss your marmar, Trina. Suddenly command in Mississippi. Whatever will you do with all those money, eh, Trina? Ha! exclaimed Marcus. Get married on it for one thing. Thereat they all shouted with laughter. McTee grinned and looked about sheepishly. Talk about luck, muttered Marcus, shaking his head at the dentist. Then suddenly he added, Well, are we going to stay talking out here in the hall all night? Can't we all come into your parlors, Mack? Sure. Sure, exclaimed McTeeg, hastily unlocking his door. Everybody come, cried Mississippi, genuinely. Ain't it so, doctor? Everybody repeated the dentist. There's some beer. We'll celebrate by damn, exclaimed Marcus. It ain't every day you win five thousand dollars. It's only Sundays and legal holidays. Again he set the company off into a gale of laughter. Anything was funny at a time like this. In some way every one of them felt elated. The wheel of fortune had come spinning close to them. They were near to this great sum of money. It was as though they too had won. Here's right where I sat when I bought that ticket, cried Trina, after they had come into the parlors, and Marcus had lit the gas. Right here in this chair. She sat down in one of the rigid chairs under the steel engraving. And Marcus, you sat here. And I was just getting out of the operating chair, interposed Miss Baker. Yes, yes, that's so. And you, continued Trina, pointing to Maria, came up and said, buy a ticket in the lottery, just a dollar. Oh, I remember it just as plain as though it was yesterday, and I wasn't going to it first. And don't you know I told Maria it was against the law? Yes, I remember. And then I gave her a dollar and put the ticket in my pocket-book. It's in my pocket-book now at home in the top drawer of my bureau. Oh, suppose it should be stolen now, she suddenly exclaimed. It's worth big money now, asserted Marcus. $5,000, who would have thought it? It's wonderful. Everybody started and turned. It was mechteague. He stood in the middle of the floor, wagging his huge head. He seemed to have just realized what had happened. Yes, sir, $5,000, exclaimed Marcus, with a sudden unaccountable mirthlessness, $5,000. Do you get onto that? Cousin Trina and you will be rich people. At 6%, that's $25 a month, hazarded the agent. Think of it, think of it, modern mechteague. He went aimlessly about the room, his eyes wide, his enormous hands dangling. A cousin of mine won $40 once, observed Miss Baker. But he spent every cent of it buying more tickets and never won anything. Then the reminiscences began. Maria told about the butcher on the next block, who had won $20 the last drawn. Mississippi knew a gas-fitter in Oakland who had won several times, once $100. Little Miss Baker announced that she had always believed that lotteries were wrong, but just the same, $5,000 was $5,000. It's all right when you win, ain't it, Miss Baker? Observed Marcus, with a certain sarcasm. What was the matter with Marcus? At moments he seemed singularly out of temper. But the agent was full of stories. He told his experiences, the legends and myths that had grown up around the history of the lottery. He told of the poor newsboy with a dying mother to support, who had drawn a prize of $15,000. Of the man who was driven to suicide through want, but who held, had he but known it, the number that two days after his death drew the capital prize of $30,000. Of the little milliner, who for ten years had played the lottery without success, and who had one day declared that she would buy but one more ticket and then give up trying, and of how this last ticket had brought her a fortune upon which she could retire. Of tickets that had been lost or destroyed, and whose numbers had won fabulous sums at the drawing. Of criminals driven to vice by poverty, and who had reformed after winning competencies. Of gamblers who played the lottery as they would play a Thero Bank, turning in their winnings again as soon as made, buying thousands of tickets all over the country. Of superstitions as to terminal and initial numbers, and as to lucky days of purchase, of marvelous coincidences, three capital prizes drawn consecutively by the same town. A ticket bought by a millionaire and given to his boot black, who won $1,000 upon it. The same number winning the same amount an indefinite number of times, and so on to infinity. Invariably it was the needy who won. The destitute and starving woke to wealth and plenty. The virtuous toiler suddenly found his reward in a ticket bought at a hazard. The lottery was a great charity. The Friend of the People, a vast, beneficent machine that recognized neither rank nor wealth nor station. The company began to be very gay. Chairs and tables were brought in from the adjoining rooms, and Maria was sent out for more beer and tamales, and also commissioned to buy a bottle of wine and some cake for Miss Baker, who abhorred beer. The dental parlors were in great confusion. Empty beer bottles stood on the movable rack where the instruments were kept. Plates and napkins were upon the seat of the operating chair, and upon the stand of shelves in the corner, side by side with the concertina and the volumes of Allen's practical dentist. The canary woke and chittered crossly. His feathers puffed out. The husks of tamales littered the floor. The stone pug dog sitting before the little stove stared at the unusual scene, his glass eyes starting from their sockets. They drank and feasted in impromptu fashion. Marcus Scholar assumed the office of master of ceremonies. He was in a lather of excitement, rushing about here and there, opening beer bottles, serving the tamales, slapping McTig upon the back, laughing and joking continually. He made McTig sit at the head of the table, with Trina at his right and the agent at his left. He, when he sat down at all, occupied the foot, Maria Macappa at his left, while next to her was Mrs. Sipa opposite Miss Baker. August had been put to bed upon the bed lounge. Where's old Granus? Suddenly exclaimed Marcus. Sure enough, where had the old Englishman gone? He had been there at first. I called him down with everybody else, cried Maria Macappa. As soon as I saw in the paper that Miss Sipa had won, we all came down to Mr. Scholar's room and waited for you to come home. I think he must have gone back to his room. I'll bet you'll find him sewing up his books. No, no, observed Miss Baker, not at this hour. Evidently, the timid old gentleman had taken advantage of the confusion to slip unobtrusively away. I'll go bring him down, shouted Marcus. He's got to join us. Miss Baker was in great agitation. I... I hardly think you'd better, she murmured. He... He... I don't think he drinks beer. He takes his amusement and sewing up books, cried Maria. Marcus brought him down nevertheless, having found him just preparing for bed. I... I must apologize, stammered old Granus, as he stood in the doorway. I had not quite expected... I... Find... Find myself a little unprepared. He was without collar and cravat, owing to Marcus Scholler's precipitated haste. He was annoyed beyond words that Miss Baker saw him thus. Could anything be more embarrassing? Old Granus was introduced to Mrs. Sipa and to Trina as Marcus's employer. They shook hands solemnly. I don't believe that he and Miss Baker have ever been introduced, cried Maria Macapa, shrilly, and they've been living side-by-side for years. The two old people were speechless, avoiding each other's gaze. They had come at last. They were to know each other, to talk together, to touch each other's hands. Marcus brought old Granus around the table to little Miss Baker, dragging him by the coat sleeve, exclaiming, Well, I thought you two people knew each other long ago. Miss Baker, this is Mr. Granus. Mr. Granus, this is Miss Baker. Neither spoke. Like two little children, they faced each other, awkward, constrained, tongue-tied with embarrassment. Then Miss Baker put out her hand, shyly. Old Granus touched it for an instant and let it fall. Now you two know each other, cried Marcus, and it's about time. For the first time their eyes met, old Granus trembled a little, putting his hand uncertainly to his chin. Miss Baker flushed ever so slightly, but Maria Macapa passed suddenly between them, carrying a half-empty beer bottle. The two old people fell back from one another, Miss Baker resuming her seat. Here's a place for you over here, Mr. Granus, cried Marcus, making room for him at his side. Old Granus slipped into the chair, withdrawing at once from the company's notice. He stared affixedly at his plate and did not speak again. Old Miss Baker began to talk volubly across the table to Mrs. Sipa about hot-house flowers and medicated flannels. It was in the midst of this little impromptu supper that the engagement of Trina and the dentist was announced. In a pause in the chatter of conversation, Mrs. Sipa leaned forward and, speaking to the agent, said, "'Well, you know also my daughter Trina get married pretty soon. She and her dentist, Dr. McTigay, yes?' There was a general exclamation. I thought so all along, cried Miss Baker, excitedly. The first time I saw them together I said, "'What a pair!' "'Delightful!' exclaimed the agent, to be married and win a snug little fortune at the same time. "'So, so,' murmured old Granus, nodding at his plate. "'Good luck to you,' cried Maria. "'He's lucky enough already,' growled Marcus under his breath, relapsing for a moment into one of those strange moods of sullenness which had marked him throughout the evening. Trina flushed crimson, drawing shyly nearer her mother. McTigay grinned from ear to ear, looking around from one to another, exclaiming, "'Huh, huh?' But the agent rose to his feet, a newly filled beer glass in his hand. He was a man of the world, this agent. He knew life. He was suave and easy. A diamond was on his little finger. Ladies and gentlemen, he began. There was an instant silence. This is indeed a happy occasion. I am glad to be here tonight, to be a witness to such good fortune, to partake in these, in this celebration. Why, I feel almost as glad as if I had held four, three arts, twelve myself, as if the five thousand were mine instead of belonging to our charming hostess. The good wishes of my humble self go out to Ms. Sipa in this moment of a good fortune. And I think, in fact, I am sure I can speak for the great institution, the great company I represent. The company congratulates Ms. Sipa. We, they, uh, they wish her every happiness her new fortune can procure her. It has been my duty, my, uh, cheerful duty to call upon the winners of large prizes and to offer the felicitation of the company. I have, in my experience, called upon many such. But never have I seen fortune so happily bestowed as in this case. The company have dowered the prospective bride. I am sure I but echo the sentiments of this assembly when I wish all joy and happiness to this happy pair. Happy in the possession of a snug little fortune, and happy, happy in, he finished with a sudden inspiration, in the possession of each other. I drink to the health, wealth, and happiness of the future bride and groom. Let us drink standing up. They drank with enthusiasm. Marcus was carried away with the excitement of the moment. Out of sight, out of sight, he vociferated, clapping his hands. Very well said, to the health of the bride. McTeague, McTeague, speech, speech. In an instant the whole table was clamoring for the dentist to speak. McTeague was terrified. He gripped the table with both hands, looking wildly about him. Speech, speech, shouted Marcus, running around the table and endeavoring to drag McTeague up. No, no, no, muttered the other. No speech. The company rattled upon the table with their beer glasses, insisting upon a speech. McTeague settled obstinately into his chair, very red in the face, shaking his head energetically. Ah, go on, he exclaimed. No speech. Ah, get up and say something anyhow. Persistent Marcus, you ought to do it. It's the proper caper. McTeague heaved himself up. There was a burst of applause. He looked slowly about him, then suddenly sat down again, shaking his head hopelessly. Ah, go on, Mac, cried Trina. Get up, say something anyhow, cried Marcus, tugging at his arm. You got to. Once more McTeague rose to his feet. Huh, he exclaimed, looking steadily at the table. Then he began. I don't know what to say. I ain't never made a speech before. I ain't never made a speech before. But I'm glad Trina's won the prize. Yes, I'll bet you are, muttered Marcus. I'm glad Trina's won. And I want to say that you're all welcome and drink hearty, and I'm much obliged to the agent. Trina and I are going to be married, and I'm glad everybody's here tonight. And you're all welcome and drink hearty, and I hope you'll come again. And you're always welcome and I am. And that's about all I got to say. He sat down, wiping his forehead amidst tremendous applause. Soon after that, the company pushed back from the table and relaxed into couples and groups. The men, with the exception of old Granis, began to smoke. The smell of their tobacco mingling with the odors of ether, creosote, and stale bedding, which pervaded the parlors. Soon the windows had to be lowered from the top. Mississippi and old Miss Baker sat together in the bay window exchanging confidences. Miss Baker had turned back the overskirt of her dress. A plate of cake was in her lap. From time to time, she sipped her wine with the delicacy of a white cat. The two women were much interested in each other. Miss Baker told Mississippi all about old Granis, not forgetting the fiction of the title and the unjust stepfather. He's quite a personage, really, said Miss Baker. Mississippi led the conversation around to her children. Ah, Trina is such a good girl, she said. Always gay, yes, and sing from Morgan to night. And Auguste, he is so smart also, yes, eh? He has their genius for machines, always making something with wheels and springs. Ah, if I had children, murmured the little old maid, a trifle wistfully, one would have been a sailor. He would have begun as a midshipman on my brother's ship. In time he would have been an officer. The other would have been a landscape gardener. Oh, Mac, exclaimed Trina, looking up into the dentist's face. Think of all this money coming to us just at this very moment. Isn't it wonderful? Don't it kind of scare you? Wonderful, wonderful, muttered McTeague, shaking his head. Let's buy a lot of tickets, he added, struck with an idea. Now that's how you can always tell a good cigar, observed the agent, to Marcus as the two sat smoking at the end of the table. The light end should be rolled to a point. Ah, the Chinese cigar makers, cried Marcus in a passion, brandishing his fist. It's them as is ruining the cause of white labor. They are, they are for a fact. Ah, the rat eaters, ah, the white-livered curves. Over in the corner by the stand of shelves, old Grannis was listening to Maria Macapa. The Mexican woman had been violently stirred over Trina's sudden wealth. Maria's mind had gone back to her younger days. She leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her chin in her hands, her eyes wide and fixed. Old Grannis listened to her attentively. There was one piece that was so much as scratched, Maria was saying. Every piece was just like a mirror, smooth and bright. Oh, bright as a little sun. Such a service as that was. Platters and soup terrains and an immense big punch-bowl. Five thousand dollars, what does that amount to? Why, that punch-bowl alone was worth a fortune. What a wonderful story, exclaimed old Grannis, never for an instant downing its truth. And it's all lost now, you say? Lost, lost, repeated Maria. Tutt, tutt, what a pity, what a pity. Suddenly the agent rose and broke out with, well, I must be going, if I'm to get to any car. He shook hands with everybody, offered a parting cigar to Marcus, congratulated MacTique and Trina a last time, and bowed himself out. What an elegant gentleman, commented Miss Baker. Ah, said Marcus, nodding his head. There's a man of the world for you. Right onto himself, by dam. The company broke up. Come along, Mac, cried Marcus. Where to sleep with the dogs tonight, you know? The two friends said good night all around and departed for the little dog hospital. Old Grannis hurried to his room furtively, terrified lest he should again be brought face-to-face with Miss Baker. He bolted himself in and listened until he heard her foot in the hall and the soft closing of her door. She was there close beside him, as one might say, in the same room, for he too had made the discovery as to the similarity of the wallpaper. At long intervals, he could hear a faint rustling as she moved about. What an evening that had been for him. He had met her, had spoken to her, had touched her hand. He was in a tremor of excitement. In a like manner, the little old dressmaker listened and quivered. He was there in that same room which they shared in common, separated only by the thinnest board partition. He was thinking of her. She was almost sure of it. They were strangers no longer. They were acquaintances, friends. What an event that evening had been in their lives. Late as it was, Miss Baker brewed a cup of tea and sat down in her rocking chair close to the partition. She rocked gently, sipping her tea, calming herself after the emotions of that wonderful evening. Old Grannis heard the clinking of the tea things and smelt the faint odor of the tea. It seemed to him a signal, an invitation. He drew his chair close to his side of the partition, before his work table. A pile of half-bound nations was in the little binding apparatus. He threaded his huge upholsterer's needle with stout twine and set to work. It was their tay-a-tay. Instinctively, they felt each other's presence. Felt each other's thoughts coming to them through the thin partition. It was charming. They were perfectly happy. There in the stillness that settled over the flat in the half hour after midnight, the two old people kept company, enjoying after their fashion their little romance that had come so late into the lives of each. On the way to her room in the garret, Maria Makapa paused under the single gas jet that burned at the top of the well of the staircase. She assured herself that she was alone and then drew from her pocket one of McTig's tapes of non-cohesive gold. It was the most valuable steal she had ever yet made in the dentist's parlors. She told herself that it was worth at least a couple of dollars. Suddenly, an idea occurred to her and she went hastily to a window at the end of the hall and shading her face with both hands looked down into the little alley just back of the flat. On some nights, Zerkow, the red-headed Polish Jew, sat up late, taking account of the week's rack picking. There was a dim light in his window now. Maria went to her room, threw a shawl around her head and descended into the little backyard of the flat by the back stairs. As she let herself out of the back gate into the alley, Alexander, Marcus's Irish setter, woke suddenly with a gruff bark. The collie who lived on the other side of the fence in the backyard of the branch post office answered with a snarl. Then, in an instant, the endless feud between the two dogs was resumed. They dragged their respective kennels to the fence and through the cracks raged at each other in a frenzy of hate. Their teeth snapped and gleamed. The hackles on their backs rose and stiffened. Their hideous clamor could have been heard for blocks around. What a massacre should the two ever meet. Meanwhile, Maria was knocking at Zerkow's miserable hovel. Who is it? Who is it? cried the rag-picker from within, in his hoarse voice, that was half-whispers starting nervously and sweeping a handful of silver into his drawer. It's me, Maria Makapa, then in a lower voice and as if speaking to herself, had a flying squirrel and let him go. Maria cried Zerkow, obsequiously opening the door. Come in, come in, my girl, you're always welcome, even as late as this. No junk, eh? But you're welcome for all that. You'll have a drink, won't you? He let her into his back room and got down the whiskey bottle and the broken red tumbler. After the two had drunk together, Maria produced the gold tape. Zerkow's eyes glittered on the instant. The sight of gold invariably sent a qualm all through him. Try as he would, he could not repress it. His fingers trembled and clawed at his mouth. His breath grew short. Ah, ah, ah, he exclaimed. Give it here, give it here, give it to me, Maria. That's a good girl, come give it to me. They haggled as usual over the price. But tonight Maria was too excited over other matters to spend much time in bickering over a few cents. Look here, Zerkow, she said, as soon as the transfer was made. I got something to tell you. A little while ago I sold a lottery ticket to a girl at the flat. The drawing was in this evening's papers. How much do you suppose that girl has won? I don't know. How much? How much? Five thousand dollars. It was as though a knife had been run through the Jew. A spasm of an almost physical pain twisted his face, his entire body. He raised his clenched fists into the air, his eyes shut, his teeth gnawing his lip. Five thousand dollars, he whispered. Five thousand dollars. For what? For nothing, for simply buying a ticket. And I have worked so hard for it, so hard, so hard. Five thousand dollars, five thousand dollars. Oh, why couldn't it have come to me, he cried, his voice choking, the tears starting to his eyes. Why couldn't it have come to me, to come so close, so close, and yet to miss me? Me, who have worked for it, fought for it, starved for it, in dying for it every day. Think of it, Maria, five thousand dollars, all bright, heavy pieces. Bright as a sunset interrupted Maria, her chin propped on her hands, such a glory, and heavy. Yes, every piece was heavy, and it was all you could do to lift the punch-bowl. Why, that punch-bowl was worth a fortune alone, and it rang when you hit it with your knuckles, didn't it? prompted Zerkow, eagerly, his lips trembling, his fingers hooking themselves into claws. Sweeter in any church bell, continued Maria. Go on, go on, go on, cried Zerkow, drawing his chair closer, and shutting his eyes in ecstasy. There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold. Ah, every one of them gold. You should have seen the sight when the leather trunk was opened. There one to piece that was so much as scratched, every one was like a mirror, smooth and bright, polished so that it looked black. You know how I mean. Oh, I know, I know, cried Zerkow, moistening his lips. Then he plied her with questions, questions that covered every detail of that service of plate. It was soft, wasn't it? You could bite into a plate and leave a dent? The handles of the knives down, were they gold, too? All the knife was made from one piece of gold, was it? And the forks the same? The interior of the trunk was quilted, of course. Did Maria ever polish the plates herself? When the company ate off this service, it must have made a fine noise. These gold knives and forks clinking together upon these gold plates. Now let's have it all over again, Maria, pleaded Zerkow. Begin now with, there were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold. Go on, begin, begin, begin. The red-headed pole was in a fever of excitement. Maria's recital had become a veritable mania with him. As he listened with closed eyes and trembling lips, he fancied he could see that wonderful plate before him, there on the table, under his eyes, under his hand, ponderous, massive, gleaming. He tormented Maria into a second repetition of the story, into a third. The more his mind dwelt upon it, the sharper grew his desire. Then, with Maria's refusal to continue the tale came the reaction. Zerkow awoke as from some ravishing dream. The plate was gone, was irretrievably lost. There was nothing in that miserable room but grimy rags and rust corroded iron. What torment, what agony, to be so near, so near, to see it in one's distorted fancy as plain as in a mirror, to know every individual piece as an old friend, to feel its weight, to be dazzled by its glitter, to call it one's own, own, to have it to oneself, hug to the breast, and then to start to wake, to come down to the horrible reality. And you, you had at once, gasped Zerkow clawing at her arm. You had at once all your own, think of it, and now it's gone. Gone for good and all, perhaps it's buried near your old place somewhere. It's gone, gone, gone, chanted Maria in a monotone. Zerkow dug his nails into his scalp, tearing at his red hair. Yes. Yes, it's gone, it's gone, lost forever, lost forever. Marcus and the dentist walked up the silent street and reached the little dog hospital. They had hardly spoken on the way. McTeague's brain was in a whirl, speech failed him. He was busy thinking of the great thing that had happened that night, and was trying to realize what its effect would be upon his life, his life and Trina's. As soon as they had found themselves in the street, Marcus had relapsed at once to a sullen silence, which McTeague was too abstracted to notice. They entered the tiny office of the hospital with its red carpet, its gas stove, and its colored prints of famous dogs hanging against the walls. In one corner stood the iron bed which they were to occupy. You go on and get to bed, Mac, observed Marcus. I'll take a look at the dogs before I turn in. He went outside and passed along into the yard, that was bounded on three sides by pins where the dogs were kept. A bull terrier dying of gastritis recognized him and began to whimper feebly. Marcus paid no attention to the dogs. For the first time that evening he was alone and could give vent to his thoughts. He took a couple of turns up and down the yard, then suddenly in a low voice exclaimed, You fool, you fool Marcus Sholler. If you'd kept Trina you'd have had that money. You might have had it yourself. You've thrown away your chance in life. To give up the girl, yes, but this. He stamped his foot with rage. To throw five thousand dollars out of the window. To stuff it into the pockets of someone else when it might have been yours. When you might have had Trina and the money. And all for what? Because we were pals. Oh pals is all right. But five thousand dollars. To have played it right into his hands. God damn the luck. End of chapter seven.