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Marcus had risen to his feet by this time and made as if to leave, but at every instant he came back, shouting his phrases into McTeague's face, moving off again as he spoke the last words, in order to give them better effect. "This settles it right here. I've done with you.
Why, the heifer had just frothed at the mouth, and his eyes had rolled up ah, sure, his eyes rolled up just like that and the butcher had said his skull was all mashed in just all mashed in, sure, that's the word just as if from a sledge-hammer. Notwithstanding his reconciliation with the dentist on the boat, Marcus's gorge rose within him at McTeague's boasting swagger.
When it is night and dark, and one is awake and alone, one's thoughts take the color of the surroundings; become gloomy, sombre, and very dismal. All at once an idea came to Trina, a dark, terrible idea; worse, even, than the idea of McTeague's death. "Oh, no," she cried. "Oh, no. It isn't true. But suppose suppose." She left her post and hurried back to the house.
Does might make right?" "You must make less noise in here, Mister Schouler," said Frenna, from behind the bar. "Well, it makes me mad," answered Marcus, subsiding into a growl and resuming his chair. "Hullo, Mac." "Hullo, Mark." But McTeague's presence made Marcus uneasy, rousing in him at once a sense of wrong. He twisted to and fro in his chair, shrugging first one shoulder and then another.
The air was full of varied smells the smell of stale cigars, of flat beer, of orange peel, of gas, of sachet powders, and of cheap perfumery. One "artist" after another came upon the stage. McTeague's attention never wandered for a minute. Trina and her mother enjoyed themselves hugely. At every moment they made comments to one another, their eyes never leaving the stage.
Then Cribbens rose into the air with a great leap and a yell that could have been heard for half a mile. "Yee-e-ow! We GOT it, we struck it. Pardner, we got it. Out of sight. We're millionaires." He snatched up his revolver and fired it with inconceivable rapidity. "PUT it there, old man," he shouted, gripping McTeague's palm.
The girl carried a huge bunch of wilting poppies and wild flowers. As the car approached McTeague's window the young man got up and swung himself off the platform, waving goodby to the party. Suddenly McTeague recognized him. "There's Marcus Schouler," he muttered behind his mustache. Marcus Schouler was the dentist's one intimate friend.
After all, he was a ready writer, and he reflected that there would be time enough before actually going to press to consider from what particular angle the blow of McTeague's death would strike down the people of France. So ran in speech and in writing, during two or three days, the requiem of Dr. McTeague.
The dentist knew that he had hurt this young man's feelings. "I want I want," he stammered. The seller slammed down a plan of the house in front of him and began to explain excitedly. It was the one thing lacking to complete McTeague's confusion. "There are your seats," finished the seller, shoving the tickets into McTeague's hands. "They are the fourth row from the front, and away from the drums.
"Ah," said Trina, with a long breath, as she and McTeague pushed through the wicket, "here we are once more, Doctor." She had not appeared to notice McTeague's embarrassment. The difficulty had been tided over somehow. Once more McTeague felt himself saved. "To der beach!" shouted Mr. Sieppe. They had checked their baskets at the peanut stand. The whole party trooped down to the seashore.
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