For a moment he stood thoughtful
on the steps of the entrance. Then all at once he became enraged, he
did not know exactly why; somehow he felt himself slighted. Once more he
came back to the wicket.
"You can't make small of me," he shouted over the girls' shoulders;
"you--you can't make small of me. I'll thump you in the head, you
little--you little--you little--little--little pup." The ticket seller
shrugged his shoulders wearily. "A dollar and a half," he said to the
two girls.
McTeague glared at him and breathed loudly. Finally he decided to let
the matter drop. He moved away, but on the steps was once more seized
with a sense of injury and outraged dignity.
"You can't make small of me," he called back a last time, wagging his
head and shaking his fist. "I will--I will--I will--yes, I will." He
went off muttering.
At last Monday night came. McTeague met the Sieppes at the ferry,
dressed in a black Prince Albert coat and his best slate-blue trousers,
and wearing the made-up lawn necktie that Marcus had selected for him.
Trina was very pretty in the black dress that McTeague knew so well.
She wore a pair of new gloves. Mrs. Sieppe had on lisle-thread mits, and
carried two bananas and an orange in a net reticule.
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