"Let's see; you've been here before, ain't you? You're the Mexican
woman from Polk Street. Macapa's your name, hey?"
Maria nodded. "Had a flying squirrel an' let him go," she muttered,
absently. Zerkow was puzzled; he looked at her sharply for a moment,
then dismissed the matter with a movement of his head.
"Well, what you got for me?" he said. He left his supper to grow cold,
absorbed at once in the affair.
Then a long wrangle began. Every bit of junk in Maria's pillow-case
was discussed and weighed and disputed. They clamored into each other's
faces over Old Grannis's cracked pitcher, over Miss Baker's silk
gaiters, over Marcus Schouler's whiskey flasks, reaching the climax of
disagreement when it came to McTeague's instruments.
"Ah, no, no!" shouted Maria. "Fifteen cents for the lot! I might as well
make you a Christmas present! Besides, I got some gold fillings off him;
look at um."
Zerkow drew a quick breath as the three pellets suddenly flashed in
Maria's palm. There it was, the virgin metal, the pure, unalloyed
ore, his dream, his consuming desire. His fingers twitched and hooked
themselves into his palms, his thin lips drew tight across his teeth.
"Ah, you got some gold," he muttered, reaching for it.
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