McTeague: A Story of San Francisco

ough every old box and trunk and barrel, groping about on the top shelves of closets, peering into rag-bags, exasperating the lodgers with her persisten

stone jugs, however, were worth a nickel. The money that Zerkow paid her, Maria spent on shirt waists and dotted blue neckties, trying to dress like the girls who tended the soda-w

e in the afternoon. His door stood a little open. That of Miss Baker was aja

Maria, standing in the door, a very dir

nis, terribly vexed at the interruption, yet not wishing to be unk

the floor beside him was a great pile of pamphlets, the pages uncut. Old Grannis bought the "Nation" and the "Breeder and Sportsman." In the latter he occasionally found articles on dogs which interested h

as she began rummaging about in Old Grannis's closet shelves. "There's

re I can't quite say; a little habit, you know; a diversion, a-a-it occu

g out of the closet with it in her hand. "The handl

e had kept it a long time, and somehow he held to it as old people

ia, I-I don't know. I'm afr

upted Maria Macapa, "w

" he rubbed his chin, perplexed and annoyed, ha

He could give no sufficient answer. "That's all

a bit close in here at times." Maria grinned, and swung the door wide. Old

e little old lady was sitting close to the wall in h

are always after junk; you know I never

arallels, to the decorous geraniums and mignonettes growing in the starch box at the window, underneath the fish globe with its one venerable gol

rannis gi' me," and she held out the yellow pitcher. Instantly Miss Baker was in a quiver of confusion. Every word spoken aloud

ffected not to hear; perspiration stood on his forehead; his timidity overcame him as if he were

out with a pair of half-worn silk gaiters in her hand. They were by no means old enough to throw away, but Miss Bak

have them; but go, go. There'

, between the two open doors, stowing away the old pitcher and the half-worn silk shoes. She made remarks at the top of her voice, calling now to Miss Baker, now to Old

air you don't want, have you? You two people have less junk than any one else in the flat. How do you manage, Mister Grannis? You

doors, leaving open a space of half a dozen inches. Old Grannis went back to his binding. Miss Baker brewed a cup of tea to quiet her nerves. Each tried to regain their composure, but in vain. Old Gran

"No, by damn! No, he hadn't a thing for her; he hadn't, for a fact. It was a positive persecution. Every day his privacy was invaded. He would complain to the landlady, he would. He'd

or. The dentist was lying on the bed-lounge in his stocking feet,

st friend, Marcus, might be in love with the same girl. He must have Trina in spite of everything; he would have her even in spite of herself. He did not stop to reflect about the matter; he followed his desire blin

. Now she was circumspect, reserved, distant. He could no longer open his mouth; words failed him. At one sitting in particular th

sire of her. His head burnt and throbbed. The palms of his hands were dry. He dozed and woke, and walked aimlessly about the dark room, bruising himsel

belonged to a rifle club that was to hold a meet at Schuetzen Park across the bay. All the Sieppes were going; there was to be a basket picnic. Marcus, as usual, was invited to be one of the party. McTeague was in agony. It was his first experience, and he suffered all the worse for it because he was totally unprepared. What miserable complica

any j

"Dental Parlors." McTeague was continually breaking things which he was too stupid to have mended; for him anythi

any j

nce she pounced upon a sheaf of old hand instruments in a coverless cigar-box, pluggers, hard bits, and excavators. Maria had long coveted su

got no more use for them." McTeague was not at all sure of thi

he had no right to withhold them, that he had promised to save them for her. She affected a great indignation, pursing her lips and putting her chin in the air as

antage of the moment to steal three "mats" of sponge-gold out of the glass saucer. Often she stole McTeague's gold, almost under his very eyes; indeed, it was so

rom top to bottom. The dirty pillow-case was full to bursting. She took advantage of the s

wagon stood in front of his door like a stranded wreck; the miserable horse, with its lam

debris, dust-blackened, rust-corroded. Everything was there, every trade was represented, every class of society; things of iron and cloth and wood; all the detri

rom long searching amidst muck and debris; and claw-like, prehensile fingers-the fingers of a man who accumulates, but never disburses. It was impossible to look at Zerkow and not know instantly that greed-inordinate, insatiable greed-was the dominant passion of the man. He was the Man with the Rake, gropin

footsteps in the outer room. His voice was faint, husky, reduc

of the shop. "Let's see; you've been here before, ain't you? Yo

red, absently. Zerkow was puzzled; he looked at her sharply for

id. He left his supper to grow col

hey clamored into each other's faces over Old Grannis's cracked pitcher, over Miss Baker's silk gaiters, over

lot! I might as well make you a Christmas present! B

was, the virgin metal, the pure, unalloyed ore, his dream, his consuming desire. His finger

gold," he muttered

oes with the others," she declared. "You'll gi' m

gold go out of his house. He counted out to her the price of all her junk, grudging e

ay. As Maria folded up the pillow-c

ink before you go, won't you? Just to show that

'll have a drin

oard on the wall. The two drank together, Zerkow from the bottle, Maria from the broken

bout those gold dishes you told me

hes?" inquired

owned in Central America a long time ago. Don't you know, i

if she knew a long story about that if she had

r lip moving against the upper, his claw-like fingers fee

if some hungry beast of prey had scented a quarry. Maria still

the whiskey. "Now, go on," repeated Zerkow; "let's have the story." Maria squared her

t glitter there. There wa'n't a piece that was so much as scratched; every one was like a mirror, smooth and bright, just like a little pool when the sun shines into it. There was dinner dishes and soup tureens and pitchers; and great, big platters as long as that and wide too; and cream-jugs and bowls with carved handles, all vines and things; and drinking mugs, every one a different shape; and dishes for gravy and sauces; and then a great, big punch-bowl with a ladle, and the bowl was all carved out with figures and bunches of grapes. Why, just only that punch-bowl was worth a fortune, I

ive enough on all other subjects, her distorted wits called up this picture with marvellous distin

a childhood of barbaric luxury? Were her parents at one time possessed of an incalculable fortune derived from some Central American cof

othing could be learned. She suddenly appeared from the unknown, a strange woman of a mixed race, sane on al

e who had possessed this wealth. He saw someone who had seen this pile of gold. He seemed near it; it was there, somewhere close by, under his eyes, under his fingers; it was red, gleaming, ponderous. He gazed about him wildly; nothing, nothing but the sordid junk shop a

olished like a mirror, hey, and heavy? Yes, I know, I know. A

ompanied her to the door, ur

ait till you've got junk; come any time you fe

her a step d

nk it was worth?" he

ollars," answere

f the shop, and stood in front of the alcohol stove, lo

tips wandering over his thin, cat-like lips. "A golden service worth a million