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.
Seized with the joyful curiosity of an overgrown boy, he pried off the
boards with the corner of his fireshovel. The case was stuffed full
of excelsior. On the top lay an envelope addressed to him in Trina's
handwriting. He opened it and read, "For my dear Mac's birthday, from
Trina;" and below, in a kind of post-script, "The man will be round
to-morrow to put it in place." McTeague tore away the excelsior.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation.
It was the Tooth--the famous golden molar with its huge prongs--his
sign, his ambition, the one unrealized dream of his life; and it was
French gilt, too, not the cheap German gilt that was no good. Ah, what
a dear little woman was this Trina, to keep so quiet, to remember his
birthday!
"Ain't she--ain't she just a--just a JEWEL," exclaimed McTeague under
his breath, "a JEWEL--yes, just a JEWEL; that's the word.
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