Selina turned her head away. Trina was wringing her
hands and crying in an agony of dread:
"Oh, stop them, stop them! Don't let them fight. Oh, it's too awful."
"Here, here, Doc, quit. Don't make a fool of yourself," cried Heise,
clinging to the dentist. "That's enough now. LISTEN to me, will you?"
"Oh, Mac, Mac," cried Trina, running to her husband. "Mac, dear, listen;
it's me, it's Trina, look at me, you----"
"Get hold of his other arm, will you, Ryer?" panted Heise. "Quick!"
"Mac, Mac," cried Trina, her arms about his neck.
"For God's sake, hold up, Doc, will you?" shouted the harness-maker.
"You don't want to kill him, do you?"
Mrs. Ryer and Heise's lame wife were filling the air with their
outcries. Selina was giggling with hysteria. Marcus, terrified, but too
brave to run, had picked up a jagged stone with his left hand and stood
on the defensive. His swollen right arm, from which the shirt sleeve had
been torn, dangled at his side, the back of the hand twisted where the
palm should have been. The shirt itself was a mass of grass stains and
was spotted with the dentist's blood.
But McTeague, in the centre of the group that struggled to hold him, was
nigh to madness.
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