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Updated: May 15, 2025
Osoph's. Which reminds me," he added more briskly, "I must ask the newspaper people to let it be known that there will be service as usual the day after tomorrow, and that Dr. McTeague's death will, of course, make no difference that is to say I must see the newspaper people at once."
McTeague's enormous strength, useless all his life, stood him in good stead at last. He slept in a tiny back room opening from the storeroom of the music store. He was in some sense a watchman as well as handler, and went the rounds of the store twice every night. His room was a box of a place that reeked with odors of stale tobacco smoke.
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!" "What nonsense!" answered Trina. "Ach Gott! What is ut?" cried Mrs.
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.
Trina took an infinite enjoyment in playing with McTeague's great square-cut head, rumpling his hair till it stood on end, putting her fingers in his eyes, or stretching his ears out straight, and watching the effect with her head on one side. It was like a little child playing with some gigantic, good-natured Saint Bernard. One particular amusement they never wearied of.
The dentist's practice was fairly good, and they could count upon the interest of Trina's five thousand dollars. To McTeague's mind this interest seemed woefully small.
Begin with, 'There were over a hundred pieces and every one of them gold." "I don't know what you're talking about, Zerkow," answered Maria. "There never was no gold plate, no gold service. I guess you must have dreamed it." Maria and the red-headed Polish Jew had been married about a month after the McTeague's picnic which had ended in such lamentable fashion.
"Say," he inquired, addressing the clerk in charge, "say, where'd this come from?" "Why, let's see. We got that from a second-hand store up on Polk Street, I guess. It's a fairly good machine; a little tinkering with the stops and a bit of shellac, and we'll make it about's good as new. Good tone. See." And the clerk drew a long, sonorous wail from the depths of McTeague's old concertina.
He can pull out your teeth with his fingers; yes, he can. What do you think of that? With his fingers, mind you; he can, for a fact. Get on to the size of him, anyhow. Ah, Mac's all right!" Maria Macapa had come into the room while he had been speaking. She was making up McTeague's bed. Suddenly Marcus exclaimed under his breath: "Now we'll have some fun.
She saw the open windows of the sitting-room, the Nottingham lace curtains stirring and billowing in the draft, and she caught sight of Maria Macapa's towelled head as the Mexican maid-of-all-work went to and fro in the suite, sweeping or carrying away the ashes. Occasionally in the windows of the "Parlors" she beheld McTeague's rounded back as he bent to his work.
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