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Updated: June 22, 2025
"Ah, Maria," cried Zerkow, obsequiously opening the door. "Come in, come in, my girl; you're always welcome, even as late as this. No junk, hey? But you're welcome for all that. You'll have a drink, won't you?" He led her into his back room and got down the whiskey bottle and the broken red tumbler. After the two had drunk together Maria produced the gold "tape."
"What 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.
"I want my wife," exclaimed the Jew, backing down the stairs. "What's she mean by running away from me and going into your room?" "Look out, he's got a knife!" cried Maria through the crack of the door. "Ah, there you are. Come outa that, and come back home," exclaimed Zerkow. "Get outa here yourself," cried Marcus, advancing on him angrily. "Get outa here." "Maria's gota come too."
"It's Zerkow," wailed Maria, pulling him back into the room and bolting the door, "and he's got a knife as long as THAT. Oh, my Lord, here he comes now! Ain't that him? Listen." Zerkow was coming up the stairs, calling for Maria. "Don't you let him get me, will you, Mister Schouler?" gasped Maria. "I'll break him in two," shouted Marcus, livid with rage. "Think I'm afraid of his knife?"
"Why, your people's gold dishes, what they used to eat off of. You've told me about it a hundred times." "You're crazy, Zerkow," said Maria. "Push the bottle here, will you?" "Come, now," insisted Zerkow, sweating with desire, "come, now, my girl, don't be a fool; let's have it, let's have it.
Suddenly an idea occurred to her, and she went hastily to a window at the end of the hall, and, shading her face with both hands, looked down into the little alley just back of the flat. On some nights Zerkow, the red-headed Polish Jew, sat up late, taking account of the week's ragpicking. There was a dim light in his window now.
Maria and old Zerkow, that red-headed Polish Jew, the rag-bottles-sacks man, you know, they're going to be married." "No!" cried Trina, in blank amazement. "You don't mean it." "Of course I do. Isn't it the funniest thing you ever heard of?" "Oh, tell me all about it," said Trina, leaning eagerly from the window. Miss Baker crossed the street and stood just beneath her.
You're worse than old Zerkow, always nagging about money, money, and you got five thousand dollars. You got more, an' you live in that stinking hole of a room, and you won't drink any decent beer. I ain't going to stand it much longer. She knew it was going to rain. She KNEW it. Didn't I TELL her?
Trina even fancied that old Miss Baker had come to be less cordial since their misfortune. Maria retailed to her all the gossip of the flat and the neighborhood, and, which was much more interesting, told her of her troubles with Zerkow. Trina said to herself that Maria was common and vulgar, but one had to have some diversion, and Trina could talk and listen without interrupting her work.
"The gold goes with the others," she declared. "You'll gi' me a fair price for the lot, or I'll take um back." In the end a bargain was struck that satisfied Maria. Zerkow was not one who would let gold go out of his house. He counted out to her the price of all her junk, grudging each piece of money as if it had been the blood of his veins. The affair was concluded.
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