by Frank Norris
It soon became apparent that Trina would be an extraordinarily good housekeeper. Economy was her strong point. A good deal of peasant blood still ran undiluted in her veins, and she had all the instinct of a hardy and penurious mountain race — the instinct which saves without any thought, without idea of consequence — saving for the sake of saving, hoarding without knowing why. Even McTeague did not know how closely Trina held to her new-found wealth.
But they did not always pass their luncheon hour in this discussion of incomes and economies. As the dentist came to know his little woman better she grew to be more and more of a puzzle and a joy to him. She would suddenly interrupt a grave discourse upon the rents of rooms and the cost of light and fuel with a brusque outburst of affection that set him all a-tremble with delight. All at once she would set down her chocolate, and, leaning across the narrow table, would exclaim:
“Never mind all that! Oh, Mac, do you truly, really love me — love me BIG?”
McTeague would stammer something, gasping, and wagging his head, beside himself for the lack of words.
“Old bear,” Trina would answer, grasping him by both huge ears and swaying his head from side to side. “Kiss me, then. Tell me, Mac, did you think any less of me that first time I let you kiss me there in the station? Oh, Mac, dear, what a funny nose you’ve got, all full of hairs inside; and, Mac, do you know you’ve got a bald spot—” she dragged his head down towards her— “right on the top of your head.” Then she would seriously kiss the bald spot in question, declaring:
“That’ll make the hair grow.”
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 two would lean across the table towards each other, McTeague folding his arms under his breast. Then Trina, resting on her elbows, would part his mustache-the great blond mustache of a viking — with her two hands, pushing it up from his lips, causing his face to assume the appearance of a Greek mask. She would curl it around either forefinger, drawing it to a fine end. Then all at once McTeague would make a fearful snorting noise through his nose. Invariably — though she was expecting this, though it was part of the game — Trina would jump with a stifled shriek. McTeague would bellow with laughter till his eyes watered. Then they would recommence upon the instant, Trina protesting with a nervous tremulousness:
“Now — now — now, Mac, DON’T; you SCARE me so.”
But these delicious tete-a-tetes with Trina were offset by a certain coolness that Marcus Schouler began to affect towards the dentist. At first McTeague was unaware of it; but by this time even his slow wits began to perceive that his best friend — his “pal” — was not the same to him as formerly. They continued to meet at lunch nearly every day but Friday at the car conductors’ coffee-joint. But Marcus was sulky; there could be no doubt about that. He avoided talking to McTeague, read the paper continually, answering the dentist’s timid efforts at conversation in gruff monosyllables. Sometimes, even, he turned sideways to the table and talked at great length to Heise the harness-maker, whose table was next to theirs. They took no more long walks together when Marcus went out to exercise the dogs. Nor did Marcus ever again recur to his generosity in renouncing Trina.
One Tuesday, as McTeague took his place at the table in the coffee-joint, he found Marcus already there.
“Hello, Mark,” said the dentist, “you here already?”
“Hello,” returned the other, indifferently, helping himself to tomato catsup. There was a silence. After a long while Marcus suddenly looked up.
“Say, Mac,” he exclaimed, “when you going to pay me that money you owe me?”
McTeague was astonished.
“Huh? What? I don’t — do I owe you any money, Mark?”
“Well, you owe me four bits,” returned Marcus, doggedly. “I paid for you and Trina that day at the picnic, and you never gave it back.”
“Oh — oh!” answered McTeague, in distress. “That’s so, that’s so. I — you ought to have told me before. Here’s your money, and I’m obliged to you.”
“It ain’t much,” observed Marcus, sullenly. “But I need all I can get now-a-days.”
“Are you — are you broke?” inquired McTeague.
“And I ain’t saying anything about your sleeping at the hospital that night, either,” muttered Marcus, as he pocketed the coin.
“Well — well — do you mean — should I have paid for that?”
“Well, you’d ‘a’ had to sleep SOMEWHERES, wouldn’t you?” flashed out Marcus. “You ‘a’ had to pay half a dollar for a bed at the flat.”
“All right, all right,” cried the dentist, hastily, feeling in his pockets. “I don’t want you should be out anything on my account, old man. Here, will four bits do?”
“I don’t WANT your damn money,” shouted Marcus in a sudden rage, throwing back the coin. “I ain’t no beggar.”
McTeague was miserable. How had he offended his pal?
“Well, I want you should take it, Mark,” he said, pushing it towards him.
“I tell you I won’t touch your money,” exclaimed the other through his clenched teeth, white with passion. “I’ve been played for a sucker long enough.”
“What’s the matter with you lately, Mark?” remonstrated McTeague. “You’ve got a grouch about something. Is there anything I’ve done?”
“Well, that’s all right, that’s all right,” returned Marcus as he rose from the table. “That’s all right. I’ve been played for a sucker long enough, that’s all. I’ve been played for a sucker long enough.” He went away with a parting malevolent glance.
At the corner of Polk Street, between the flat and the car conductors’ coffee-joint, was Frenna’s. It was a corner grocery; advertisements for cheap butter and eggs, painted in green marking-ink upon wrapping paper, stood about on the sidewalk outside. The doorway was decorated with a huge Milwaukee beer sign. Back of the store proper was a bar where white sand covered the floor. A few tables and chairs were scattered here and there. The walls were hung with gorgeously-colored tobacco advertisements and colored lithographs of trotting horses. On the wall behind the bar was a model of a full-rigged ship enclosed in a bottle.
It was at this place that the dentist used to leave his pitcher to be filled on Sunday afternoons. Since his engagement to Trina he had discontinued this habit. However, he still dropped into Frenna’s one or two nights in the week. He spent a pleasant hour there, smoking his huge porcelain pipe and drinking his beer. He never joined any of the groups of piquet players around the tables. In fact, he hardly spoke to anyone but the bartender and Marcus.
For Frenna’s was one of Marcus Schouler’s haunts; a great deal of his time was spent there. He involved himself in fearful political and social discussions with Heise the harness-maker, and with one or two old German, habitues of the place. These discussions Marcus carried on, as was his custom, at the top of his voice, gesticulating fiercely, banging the table with his fists, brandishing the plates and glasses, exciting himself with his own clamor.
On a certain Saturday evening, a few days after the scene at the coffee-joint, the dentist bethought him to spend a quiet evening at Frenna’s. He had not been there for some time, and, besides that, it occurred to him that the day was his birthday. He would permit himself an extra pipe and a few glasses of beer. When McTeague entered Frenna’s back room by the street door, he found Marcus and Heise already installed at one of the tables. Two or three of the old Germans sat opposite them, gulping their beer from time to time. Heise was smoking a cigar, but Marcus had before him his fourth whiskey cocktail. At the moment of McTeague’s entrance Marcus had the floor.
“It can’t be proven,” he was yelling. “I defy any sane politician
whose eyes are not blinded by party prejudices, whose opinions are not warped by a personal bias, to substantiate such a statement. Look at your facts, look at your figures. I am a free American citizen, ain’t I? I pay my taxes to support a good government, don’t I? It’s a contract between me and the government, ain’t it? Well, then, by damn! if the authorities do not or will not afford me protection for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, then my obligations are at an end; I withhold my taxes. I do — I do — I say I do. What?” He glared about him, seeking opposition.
“That’s nonsense,” observed Heise, quietly. “Try it once; you’ll get jugged.” But this observation of the harness-maker’s roused Marcus to the last pitch of frenzy.
“Yes, ah, yes!” he shouted, rising to his feet, shaking his finger in the other’s face. “Yes, I’d go to jail; but because I — I am crushed by a tyranny, does that make the tyranny right? 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. Quarrelsome at all times, the heat of the previous discussion had awakened within him all his natural combativeness. Besides this, he was drinking his fourth cocktail.
McTeague began filling his big porcelain pipe. He lit it, blew a great cloud of smoke into the room, and settled himself comfortably in his chair. The smoke of his cheap tobacco drifted into the faces of the group at the adjoining table, and Marcus strangled and coughed. Instantly his eyes flamed.
“Say, for God’s sake,” he vociferated, “choke off on that pipe! If you’ve got to smoke rope like that, smoke it in a crowd of muckers; don’t come here amongst gentlemen.”
“Shut up, Schouler!” observed Heise in a low voice.
McTeague was stunned by the suddenness of the attack. He took his pipe from his mouth, and stared blankly at Marcus; his lips moved, but he said no word. Marcus turned his back on him, and the dentist resumed his pipe.
But Marcus was far from being appeased. McTeague could not hear the talk that followed between him and the harnessmaker, but it seemed to him that Marcus was telling Heise of some injury, some grievance, and that the latter was trying to pacify him. All at once their talk grew louder. Heise laid a retaining hand upon his companion’s coat sleeve, but Marcus swung himself around in his chair, and, fixing his eyes on McTeague, cried as if in answer to some protestation on the part of Heise:
“All I know is that I’ve been soldiered out of five thousand dollars.”
McTeague gaped at him, bewildered. He removed his pipe from his mouth a second time, and stared at Marcus with eyes full of trouble and perplexity.
“If I had my rights,” cried Marcus, bitterly, “I’d have part of that money. It’s my due — it’s only justice.” The dentist still kept silence.
“If it hadn’t been for me,” Marcus continued, addressing himself directly to McTeague, “you wouldn’t have had a cent of it — no, not a cent. Where’s my share, I’d like to know? Where do I come in? No, I ain’t in it any more. I’ve been played for a sucker, an’ now that you’ve got all you can out of me, now that you’ve done me out of my girl and out of my money, you give me the go-by. Why, where would you have been TO-DAY if it hadn’t been for me?” Marcus shouted in a sudden exasperation, “You’d a been plugging teeth at two bits an hour. Ain’t you got any gratitude? Ain’t you got any sense of decency?”
“Ah, hold up, Schouler,” grumbled Heise. “You don’t want to get into a row.”
“No, I don’t, Heise,” returned Marcus, with a plaintive, aggrieved air. “But it’s too much sometimes when you think of it. He stole away my girl’s affections, and now that he’s rich and prosperous, and has got five thousand dollars that I might have had, he gives me the go-by; he’s played me for a sucker. Look here,” he cried, turning again to McTeague, “do I get any of that money?”
“It ain’t mine to give,” answered McTeague. “You’re drunk, that’s what you are.”
“Do I get any of that money?” cried Marcus, persistently.
The dentist shook his head. “No, you don’t get any of it.”
“Now — NOW,” clamored the other, turning to the harnessmaker, as though this explained everything. “Look at that, look at that. Well, I’ve done with you from now on.” 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. Don’t you ever dare speak to me again” — his voice was shaking with fury— “and don’t you sit at my table in the restaurant again. I’m sorry I ever lowered myself to keep company with such dirt. Ah, one-horse dentist! Ah, ten-cent zinc-plugger — hoodlum — MUCKER! Get your damn smoke outa my face.”
Then matters reached a sudden climax. In his agitation the dentist had been pulling hard on his pipe, and as Marcus for the last time thrust his face close to his own, McTeague, in opening his lips to reply, blew a stifling, acrid cloud directly in Marcus Schouler’s eyes. Marcus knocked the pipe from his fingers with a sudden flash of his hand; it spun across the room and broke into a dozen fragments in a far corner.
McTeague rose to his feet, his eyes wide. But as yet he was not angry, only surprised, taken all aback by the suddenness of Marcus Schouler’s outbreak as well as by its unreasonableness. Why had Marcus broken his pipe? What did it all mean, anyway? As he rose the dentist made a vague motion with his right hand. Did Marcus misinterpret it as a gesture of menace? He sprang back as though avoiding a blow. All at once there was a cry. Marcus had made a quick, peculiar motion, swinging his arm upward with a wide and sweeping gesture; his jack-knife lay open in his palm; it shot forward as he flung it, glinted sharply by McTeague’s head, and struck quivering into the wall behind.
A sudden chill ran through the room; the others stood transfixed, as at the swift passage of some cold and deadly wind. Death had stooped there for an instant, had stooped and past, leaving a trail of terror and confusion. Then the door leading to the street slammed; Marcus had disappeared.
Thereon a great babel of exclamation arose. The tension of that all but fatal instant snapped, and speech became once more possible.
“He would have knifed you.”
“Narrow escape.”
“What kind of a man do you call THAT?”
“‘Tain’t his fault he ain’t a murderer.”
“I’d have him up for it.”
“And they two have been the greatest kind of friends.”
“He didn’t touch you, did he?”
“No — no — no.”
“What a — what a devil! What treachery! A regular greaser trick!”
“Look out he don’t stab you in the back. If that’s the kind of man he is, you never can tell.”
Frenna drew the knife from the wall.
“Guess I’ll keep this toad-stabber,” he observed. “That fellow won’t come round for it in a hurry; goodsized blade, too.” The group examined it with intense interest.
“Big enough to let the life out of any man,” observed Heise.
“What — what — what did he do it for?” stammered McTeague. “I got no quarrel with him.”
He was puzzled and harassed by the strangeness of it all. Marcus would have killed him; had thrown his knife at him in the true, uncanny “greaser” style. It was inexplicable. McTeague sat down again, looking stupidly about on the floor. In a corner of the room his eye encountered his broken pipe, a dozen little fragments of painted porcelain and the stem of cherry wood and amber.
At that sight his tardy wrath, ever lagging behind the original affront, suddenly bl
azed up. Instantly his huge jaws clicked together.
“He can’t make small of ME,” he exclaimed, suddenly. “I’ll show Marcus Schouler — I’ll show him — I’ll — —”
He got up and clapped on his hat.
“Now, Doctor,” remonstrated Heise, standing between him and the door, “don’t go make a fool of yourself.”
“Let ‘um alone,” joined in Frenna, catching the dentist by the arm; “he’s full, anyhow.”
“He broke my pipe,” answered McTeague.
It was this that had roused him. The thrown knife, the attempt on his life, was beyond his solution; but the breaking of his pipe he understood clearly enough.
“I’ll show him,” he exclaimed.
As though they had been little children, McTeague set Frenna and the harness-maker aside, and strode out at the door like a raging elephant. Heise stood rubbing his shoulder.
“Might as well try to stop a locomotive,” he muttered. “The man’s made of iron.”
Meanwhile, McTeague went storming up the street toward the flat, wagging his head and grumbling to himself. Ah, Marcus would break his pipe, would he? Ah, he was a zinc-plugger, was he? He’d show Marcus Schouler. No one should make small of him. He tramped up the stairs to Marcus’s room. The door was locked. The dentist put one enormous hand on the knob and pushed the door in, snapping the wood-work, tearing off the lock. Nobody — the room was dark and empty. Never mind, Marcus would have to come home some time that night. McTeague would go down and wait for him in his “Parlors.” He was bound to hear him as he came up the stairs.
As McTeague reached his room he stumbled over, in the darkness, a big packing-box that stood in the hallway just outside his door. Puzzled, he stepped over it, and lighting the gas in his room, dragged it inside and examined it.
It was addressed to him. What could it mean? He was expecting nothing. Never since he had first furnished his room had packing-cases been left for him in this fashion. No mistake was possible. There were his name and address unmistakably. “Dr. McTeague, dentist — Polk Street, San Francisco, Cal.,” and the red Wells Fargo tag.