There were dried apples, that gave Mr.
Sieppe the hiccoughs. There were a dozen bottles of beer, and, last of
all, a crowning achievement, a marvellous Gotha truffle. After lunch
came tobacco. Stuffed to the eyes, McTeague drowsed over his pipe, prone
on his back in the sun, while Trina, Mrs. Sieppe, and Selina washed the
dishes. In the afternoon Mr. Sieppe disappeared. They heard the reports
of his rifle on the range. The others swarmed over the park, now around
the swings, now in the Casino, now in the museum, now invading the
merry-go-round.
At half-past five o'clock Mr. Sieppe marshalled the party together. It
was time to return home.
The family insisted that Marcus and McTeague should take supper with
them at their home and should stay over night. Mrs. Sieppe argued they
could get no decent supper if they went back to the city at that hour;
that they could catch an early morning boat and reach their business in
good time. The two friends accepted.
The Sieppes lived in a little box of a house at the foot of B Street,
the first house to the right as one went up from the station. It was two
stories high, with a funny red mansard roof of oval slates. The interior
was cut up into innumerable tiny rooms, some of them so small as to be
hardly better than sleeping closets.
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