Essential Novelists - Frank Norris. Frank Norris
was the trouble?” inquired Marcus, suddenly.
“I woke up about an hour ago,” Maria explained, “and Zerkow wasn't in bed; maybe he hadn't come to bed at all. He was down on his knees by the sink, and he'd pried up some boards off the floor and was digging there. He had his dark-lantern. He was digging with that knife, I guess, and all the time he kept mumbling to himself, 'More'n a hundred pieces, an' every one of 'em gold; more'n a hundred pieces, an' every one of 'em gold.' Then, all of a sudden, he caught sight of me. I was sitting up in bed, and he jumped up and came at me with his knife, an' he says, 'Where is it? Where is it? I know you got it hid somewhere. Where is it? Tell me or I'll knife you.' I kind of fooled him and kept him off till I got my wrapper on, an' then I run out. I didn't dare stay.”
“Well, what did you tell him about your gold dishes for in the first place?” cried Marcus.
“I never told him,” protested Maria, with the greatest energy. “I never told him; I never heard of any gold dishes. I don' know where he got the idea; he must be crazy.”
By this time Trina and McTeague, Old Grannis, and little Miss Baker—all the lodgers on the upper floors of the flat—had gathered about Maria. Trina and the dentist, who had gone to bed, were partially dressed, and Trina's enormous mane of black hair was hanging in two thick braids far down her back. But, late as it was, Old Grannis and the retired dressmaker had still been up and about when Maria had aroused them.
“Why, Maria,” said Trina, “you always used to tell us about your gold dishes. You said your folks used to have them.”
“Never, never, never!” exclaimed Maria, vehemently. “You folks must all be crazy. I never HEARD of any gold dishes.”
“Well,” spoke up Miss Baker, “you're a queer girl, Maria; that's all I can say.” She left the group and returned to her room. Old Grannis watched her go from the corner of his eye, and in a few moments followed her, leaving the group as unnoticed as he had joined it. By degrees the flat quieted down again. Trina and McTeague returned to their rooms.
“I guess I'll go back now,” said Maria. “He's all right now. I ain't afraid of him so long as he ain't got his knife.”
“Well, say,” Marcus called to her as she went down stairs, “if he gets funny again, you just yell out; I'LL hear you. I won't let him hurt you.”
Marcus went into his room again and resumed his wrangle with the refractory boots. His eye fell on Zerkow's knife, a long, keen-bladed hunting-knife, with a buckhorn handle. “I'll take you along with me,” he exclaimed, suddenly. “I'll just need you where I'm going.”
Meanwhile, old Miss Baker was making tea to calm her nerves after the excitement of Maria's incursion. This evening she went so far as to make tea for two, laying an extra place on the other side of her little tea-table, setting out a cup and saucer and one of the Gorham silver spoons. Close upon the other side of the partition Old Grannis bound uncut numbers of the “Nation.”
“Do you know what I think, Mac?” said Trina, when the couple had returned to their rooms. “I think Marcus is going away.”
“What? What?” muttered the dentist, very sleepy and stupid, “what you saying? What's that about Marcus?”
“I believe Marcus has been packing up, the last two or three days. I wonder if he's going away.”
“Who's going away?” said McTeague, blinking at her.
“Oh, go to bed,” said Trina, pushing him goodnaturedly. “Mac, you're the stupidest man I ever knew.”
But it was true. Marcus was going away. Trina received a letter the next morning from her mother. The carpet-cleaning and upholstery business in which Mr. Sieppe had involved himself was going from bad to worse. Mr. Sieppe had even been obliged to put a mortgage upon their house. Mrs. Sieppe didn't know what was to become of them all. Her husband had even begun to talk of emigrating to New Zealand. Meanwhile, she informed Trina that Mr. Sieppe had finally come across a man with whom Marcus could “go in with on a ranch,” a cattle ranch in the southeastern portion of the State. Her ideas were vague upon the subject, but she knew that Marcus was wildly enthusiastic at the prospect, and was expected down before the end of the month. In the meantime, could Trina send them fifty dollars?
“Marcus IS going away, after all, Mac,” said Trina to her husband that day as he came out of his “Parlors” and sat down to the lunch of sausages, mashed potatoes, and chocolate in the sitting-room.
“Huh?” said the dentist, a little confused. “Who's going away? Schouler going away? Why's Schouler going away?”
Trina explained. “Oh!” growled McTeague, behind his thick mustache, “he can go far before I'LL stop him.”
“And, say, Mac,” continued Trina, pouring the chocolate, “what do you think? Mamma wants me—wants us to send her fifty dollars. She says they're hard up.”
“Well,” said the dentist, after a moment, “well, I guess we can send it, can't we?”
“Oh, that's easy to say,” complained Trina, her little chin in the air, her small pale lips pursed. “I wonder if mamma thinks we're millionaires?”
“Trina, you're getting to be regular stingy,” muttered McTeague. “You're getting worse and worse every day.”
“But fifty dollars is fifty dollars, Mac. Just think how long it takes you to earn fifty dollars. Fifty dollars! That's two months of our interest.”
“Well,” said McTeague, easily, his mouth full of mashed potato, “you got a lot saved up.”
Upon every reference to that little hoard in the brass match-safe and chamois-skin bag at the bottom of her trunk, Trina bridled on the instant.
“Don't TALK that way, Mac. 'A lot of money.' What do you call a lot of money? I don't believe I've got fifty dollars saved.”
“Hoh!” exclaimed McTeague. “Hoh! I guess you got nearer a hundred AN' fifty. That's what I guess YOU got.”
“I've NOT, I've NOT,” declared Trina, “and you know I've not. I wish mamma hadn't asked me for any money. Why can't she be a little more economical? I manage all right. No, no, I can't possibly afford to send her fifty.”
“Oh, pshaw! What WILL you do, then?” grumbled her husband.
“I'll send her twenty-five this month, and tell her I'll send the rest as soon as I can afford it.”
“Trina, you're a regular little miser,” said McTeague.
“I don't care,” answered Trina, beginning to laugh. “I guess I am, but I can't help it, and it's a good fault.”
Trina put off sending this money for a couple of weeks, and her mother made no mention of it in her next letter. “Oh, I guess if she wants it so bad,” said Trina, “she'll speak about it again.” So she again postponed the sending of it. Day by day she put it off. When her mother asked her for it a second time, it seemed harder than ever for Trina to part with even half the sum requested. She answered her mother, telling her that they were very hard up themselves for that month, but that she would send down the amount in a few weeks.
“I'll tell you what we'll do, Mac,” she said to her husband, “you send half and I'll send half; we'll send twenty-five dollars altogether. Twelve and a half apiece. That's an idea. How will that do?”
“Sure, sure,” McTeague had answered, giving her the money. Trina sent McTeague's twelve dollars, but never sent the twelve that was to be her share. One day the dentist happened to ask her about it.
“You sent that twenty-five to your mother, didn't you?” said he.
“Oh, long ago,” answered Trina, without thinking.
In fact, Trina never allowed herself to think very much of this affair. And, in fact, another matter