Kitabı oku: «McTeague: A Story of San Francisco», sayfa 7
As they were buying their tamales from the half-breed Mexican at the street corner, McTeague observed:
“Marcus ain’t gone to bed yet. See, there’s a light in his window. There!” he exclaimed at once, “I forgot the doorkey. 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 Macapa stood there, her hand upon the rope that drew the bolt; Marcus was at her side; Old Grannis was in the background, looking over their shoulders; while little Miss Baker leant over the banisters, a strange man in a drab overcoat at her side. As McTeague’s party stepped into the doorway a half-dozen voices cried:
“Yes, it’s them.”
“Is that you, Mac?”
“Is that you, Miss Sieppe?”
“Is your name Trina Sieppe?”
Then, shriller than all the rest, Maria Macapa screamed:
“Oh, Miss Sieppe, come up here quick. Your lottery ticket has won five thousand dollars!”
CHAPTER 7
“What nonsense!” answered Trina.
“Ach Gott! What is ut?” cried Mrs. Sieppe, 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.
“Le’ me be the first to congratulate you,” he cried, catching Trina’s hand. Every one was talking at once.
“Miss Sieppe, Miss Sieppe, your ticket has won five thousand dollars,” cried Maria. “Don’t you remember the lottery ticket I sold you in Doctor McTeague’s office?”
“Trina!” almost screamed her mother. “Five tausend thalers! five tausend thalers! If popper were only here!”
“What is it—what is it?” exclaimed McTeague, 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 400,012. 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 fillip 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 Sieppe,” he said. “I suppose you have kept your ticket.”
“Yes, yes; four three oughts 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. “Mamma, think of it. I’ve won five thousand dollars, just by buying a ticket. Mac, what do you say to that? I’ve got five thousand dollars. August, do you hear what’s happened to sister?”
“Kiss your mommer, Trina,” suddenly commanded Mrs. Sieppe. “What efer will you do mit all dose money, eh, Trina?”
“Huh!” exclaimed Marcus. “Get married on it for one thing.” Thereat they all shouted with laughter. McTeague 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’, Mac?”
“Sure, sure,” exclaimed McTeague, hastily unlocking his door.
“Efery botty gome,” cried Mrs. Sieppe, genially. “Ain’t ut so, Doktor?”
“Everybody,” repeated the dentist. “There’s—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 at 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 pocketbook. It’s in my pocketbook 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.
“Five thousand dollars. Who would have thought it? It’s wonderful.” Everybody started and turned. It was McTeague. He stood in the middle of the floor, wagging his huge head. He seemed to have just realized what had happened.
“Yes, sir, five thousand dollars!” exclaimed Marcus, with a sudden unaccountable mirthlessness. “Five thousand dollars! Do you get on to that? Cousin Trina and you will be rich people.”
“At six per cent, that’s twenty-five dollars a month,” hazarded the agent.
“Think of it. Think of it,” muttered McTeague. He went aimlessly about the room, his eyes wide, his enormous hands dangling.
“A cousin of mine won forty dollars 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 twenty dollars the last drawing. Mrs. Sieppe knew a gasfitter in Oakland who had won several times; once a hundred dollars. Little Miss Baker announced that she had always believed that lotteries were wrong; but, just the same, five thousand was five thousand.
“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 fifteen thousand; 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 thirty thousand dollars; 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 faro 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 marvellous coincidences—three capital prizes drawn consecutively by the same town; a ticket bought by a millionaire and given to his boot-black, who won a thousand dollars 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 Schouler 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 McTeague upon the back, laughing and joking continually. He made McTeague 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 Macapa at his left, while next to her was Mrs. Sieppe, opposite Miss Baker. Owgooste had been put to bed upon the bed-lounge.
“Where’s Old Grannis?” 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 Macapa, “as soon as I saw in the paper that Miss Sieppe had won. We all came down to Mr. Schouler’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 in sewin’ up books,” cried Maria.
Marcus brought him down, nevertheless, having found him just preparing for bed.
“I—I must apologize,” stammered Old Grannis, 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 Schouler’s precipitate haste. He was annoyed beyond words that Miss Baker saw him thus. Could anything be more embarrassing?
Old Grannis was introduced to Mrs. Sieppe and to Trina as Marcus’s employer. They shook hands solemnly.
“I don’t believe that he an’ Miss Baker have ever been introduced,” cried Maria Macapa, shrilly, “an’ they’ve been livin’ side by side for years.”
The two old people were speechless, avoiding each other’s gaze. It had come at last; they were to know each other, to talk together, to touch each other’s hands.
Marcus brought Old Grannis 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. Grannis; Mr. Grannis, 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 Grannis touched it for an instant and let it fall.
“Now you know each other,” cried Marcus, “and it’s about time.” For the first time their eyes met; Old Grannis 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. Grannis,” cried Marcus, making room for him at his side. Old Grannis slipped into the chair, withdrawing at once from the company’s notice. He stared fixedly at his plate and did not speak again. Old Miss Baker began to talk volubly across the table to Mrs. Sieppe 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. Sieppe leaned forward and, speaking to the agent, said:
“Vell, you know also my daughter Trina get married bretty soon. She and der dentist, Doktor McTeague, eh, 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 Grannis, 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. McTeague 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—I am glad to be here to-night; 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 oughts 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 Miss Sieppe in this moment of her 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 Miss Sieppe. We—they—ah—They wish her every happiness her new fortune can procure her. It has been my duty, my—ah—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.
“Outa sight, outa 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 somethun, anyhow,” persisted 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.
“Oh, go on, Mac,” cried Trina.
“Get up, say somethun, 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’ know what to say—I—I—I ain’t never made a speech before; I—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—I—I’m glad Trina’s won, and I—I want to—I want to—I want to—want to say that—you’re—all—welcome, an’ drink hearty, an’ I’m much obliged to the agent. Trina and I are goin’ to be married, an’ I’m glad everybody’s here to-night, an’ you’re—all—welcome, an’ drink hearty, an’ I hope you’ll come again, an’ you’re always welcome—an’—I—an’—an’—That’s—about—all—I—gotta 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 Grannis, 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. Mrs. Sieppe 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 Mrs. Sieppe all about Old Grannis, not forgetting the fiction of the title and the unjust stepfather.
“He’s quite a personage really,” said Miss Baker.
Mrs. Sieppe led the conversation around to her children. “Ach, Trina is sudge a goote girl,” she said; “always gay, yes, und sing from morgen to night. Und Owgooste, he is soh smart also, yes, eh? He has der genius for machines, always making somethun mit wheels und sbrings.”
“Ah, if—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 curs!”
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 wa’n’t a 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 tureens and an immense big punchbowl. 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 doubting its truth. “And it’s all lost now, you say?”
“Lost, lost,” repeated Maria.
“Tut, tut! What a pity! What a pity!”
Suddenly the agent rose and broke out with:
“Well, I must be going, if I’m to get any car.”
He shook hands with everybody, offered a parting cigar to Marcus, congratulated McTeague 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 on to himself, by damn!”
The company broke up.
“Come along, Mac,” cried Marcus; “we’re to sleep with the dogs to-night, 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 tete-a-tete. Instinctively they felt each other’s presence, felt each other’s thought 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 Macapa 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 McTeague’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 ragpicking. 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 back yard 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 back yard 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 whisper, starting nervously, and sweeping a handful of silver into his drawer.
“It’s me, Maria Macapa;” then in a lower voice, and as if speaking to herself, “had a flying squirrel an’ let him go.”
“Ah, Maria,” cried Zerkow, obsequiously opening the door. “Come in, come in, my girl; you’re always welcome, even as late as this. No junk, hey? But you’re welcome for all that. You’ll have a drink, won’t you?” He led 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 to-night 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, am 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’n 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 wa’n’t a 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, now, 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, hugged to the breast; and then to start, to wake, to come down to the horrible reality.
“And you, YOU had it once,” gasped Zerkow, clawing at her arm; “you had it 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 an’ get to bed, Mac,” observed Marcus. “I’ll take a look at the dogs before I turn in.”
