"Who's going away? Schouler
going away? Why's Schouler going away?"
Trina explained. "Oh!" growled McTeague, behind his thick mustache, "he
can go far before I'LL stop him."
"And, say, Mac," continued Trina, pouring the chocolate, "what do you
think? Mamma wants me--wants us to send her fifty dollars. She says
they're hard up."
"Well," said the dentist, after a moment, "well, I guess we can send it,
can't we?"
"Oh, that's easy to say," complained Trina, her little chin in the
air, her small pale lips pursed. "I wonder if mamma thinks we're
millionaires?"
"Trina, you're getting to be regular stingy," muttered McTeague. "You're
getting worse and worse every day."
"But fifty dollars is fifty dollars, Mac. Just think how long it takes
you to earn fifty dollars. Fifty dollars! That's two months of our
interest."
"Well," said McTeague, easily, his mouth full of mashed potato, "you got
a lot saved up."
Upon every reference to that little hoard in the brass match-safe
and chamois-skin bag at the bottom of her trunk, Trina bridled on the
instant.
"Don't TALK that way, Mac. 'A lot of money.' What do you call a lot of
money? I don't believe I've got fifty dollars saved.
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