It's here somewheres, hid somewheres in this house."
At length his continued ill success began to exasperate him. One day he
took his whip from his junk wagon and thrashed Maria with it, gasping
the while, "Where is it, you beast? Where is it? Tell me where it is;
I'll make you speak."
"I don' know, I don' know," cried Maria, dodging his blows. "I'd tell
you, Zerkow, if I knew; but I don' know nothing about it. How can I tell
you if I don' know?"
Then one evening matters reached a crisis. Marcus Schouler was in his
room, the room in the flat just over McTeague's "Parlors" which he had
always occupied. It was between eleven and twelve o'clock. The vast
house was quiet; Polk Street outside was very still, except for the
occasional whirr and trundle of a passing cable car and the persistent
calling of ducks and geese in the deserted market directly opposite.
Marcus was in his shirt sleeves, perspiring and swearing with exertion
as he tried to get all his belongings into an absurdly inadequate trunk.
The room was in great confusion. It looked as though Marcus was about
to move. He stood in front of his trunk, his precious silk hat in its
hat-box in his hand. He was raging at the perverseness of a pair of
boots that refused to fit in his trunk, no matter how he arranged them.
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