McTeague by Frank Norris (leveled readers TXT) 📕

the most part, with here and there a gold piece. Long since the little brass matchbox had overflowed. Trina kept the surplus in a chamois-skin sack she had made from an old chest protector. Just now, yielding to an impulse which often seized her, she drew out the matchbox and the chamois sack, and emptying the contents on the bed, counted them carefully. It came to one hundred and sixty-five dollars, all told. She counted it and recounted it and made little piles of it, and rubbed the gold pieces between the folds of her apron until they shone.

“Ah, yes, ten dollars is all I can afford to give Mac,” said Trina, “and even then, think of it, ten dollars⁠—it will be four or five months before I can save that again. But, dear old Mac, I know it would make him feel glad, and perhaps,” she added, suddenly taken with an idea, “perhaps Mac will refuse to take it.”

She took a ten-dollar piece from the heap and put the rest away. Then she paused:

“No, not the gold piece,” she said to herself. “It’s too pretty. He can have the silver.” She made the change and counted out ten silver dollars into her palm. But what a difference it made in the appearance and weight of the little chamois bag! The bag was shrunken and withered, long wrinkles appeared running downward from the drawstring. It was a lamentable sight. Trina looked longingly at the ten broad pieces in her hand. Then suddenly all her intuitive desire of saving, her instinct of hoarding, her love of money for the money’s sake, rose strong within her.

“No, no, no,” she said. “I can’t do it. It may be mean, but I can’t help it. It’s stronger than I.” She returned the money to the bag and locked it and the brass matchbox in her trunk, turning the key with a long breath of satisfaction.

She was a little troubled, however, as she went back into the sitting-room and took up her work.

“I didn’t use to be so stingy,” she told herself. “Since I won in the lottery I’ve become a regular little miser. It’s growing on me, but never mind, it’s a good fault, and, anyhow, I can’t help it.”

XI

On that particular morning the McTeagues had risen a half hour earlier than usual and taken a hurried breakfast in the kitchen on the deal table with its oilcloth cover. Trina was housecleaning that week and had a presentiment of a hard day’s work ahead of her, while McTeague remembered a seven o’clock appointment with a little German shoemaker.

At about eight o’clock, when the dentist had been in his office for over an hour, Trina descended upon the bedroom, a towel about her head and the roller-sweeper in her hand. She covered the bureau and sewing machine with sheets, and unhooked the chenille portieres between the bedroom and the sitting-room. As she was tying the Nottingham lace curtains at the window into great knots, she saw old Miss Baker on the opposite sidewalk in the street below, and raising the sash called down to her.

“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. McTeague,” cried the retired dressmaker, facing about, her head in the air. Then a long conversation was begun, Trina, her arms folded under her breast, her elbows resting on the window ledge, willing to be idle for a moment; old Miss Baker, her market-basket on her arm, her hands wrapped in the ends of her worsted shawl against the cold of the early morning. They exchanged phrases, calling to each other from window to curb, their breath coming from their lips in faint puffs of vapor, their voices shrill, and raised to dominate the clamor of the waking street. The newsboys had made their appearance on the street, together with the day laborers. The cable cars had begun to fill up; all along the street could be seen the shopkeepers taking down their shutters; some were still breakfasting. Now and then a waiter from one of the cheap restaurants crossed from one sidewalk to another, balancing on one palm a tray covered with a napkin.

“Aren’t you out pretty early this morning, Miss Baker?” called Trina.

“No, no,” answered the other. “I’m always up at half-past six, but I don’t always get out so soon. I wanted to get a nice head of cabbage and some lentils for a soup, and if you don’t go to market early, the restaurants get all the best.”

“And you’ve been to market already, Miss Baker?”

“Oh, my, yes; and I got a fish⁠—a sole⁠—see.” She drew the sole in question from her basket.

“Oh, the lovely sole!” exclaimed Trina.

“I got this one at Spadella’s; he always has good fish on Friday. How is the doctor, Mrs. McTeague?”

“Ah, Mac is always well, thank you, Miss Baker.”

“You know, Mrs. Ryer told me,” cried the little dressmaker, moving forward a step out of the way of a “glass-put-in” man, “that Doctor McTeague pulled a tooth of that Catholic priest, Father⁠—oh, I forget his name⁠—anyhow, he pulled his tooth with his fingers. Was that true, Mrs. McTeague?”

“Oh, of course. Mac does that almost all the time now, ’specially with front teeth. He’s got a regular reputation for it. He says it’s brought him more patients than even the sign I gave him,” she added, pointing to the big golden molar projecting from the office window.

“With his fingers! Now, think of that,” exclaimed Miss Baker, wagging her head. “Isn’t he that strong! It’s just wonderful. Cleaning house today?” she inquired, glancing at Trina’s towelled head.

“Um hum,” answered Trina. “Maria Macapa’s coming in to help pretty soon.”

At the mention of Maria’s name the little old dressmaker suddenly uttered an exclamation.

“Well, if I’m not here talking to you and forgetting something I was just dying to tell you. Mrs. McTeague, what ever in the world do you suppose? Maria and old Zerkow, that redheaded Polish Jew, the rag-bottles-sacks man, you know, they’re going to be married.”

“No!” cried Trina, in blank amazement.