I saw it in the window of a second-hand
store, and a fellow GAVE me that stone pug dog. He was a druggist. It
was in Sacramento too. We traded. I gave him a shaving-mug and a razor,
and he gave me the pug dog."
There were, however, two of his belongings that even Trina could not
induce him to part with.
"And your concertina, Mac," she prompted, as they were making out the
list for the second-hand dealer. "The concertina, and--oh, yes, the
canary and the bird cage."
"No."
"Mac, you MUST be reasonable. The concertina would bring quite a
sum, and the bird cage is as good as new. I'll sell the canary to the
bird-store man on Kearney Street."
"No."
"If you're going to make objections to every single thing, we might as
well quit. Come, now, Mac, the concertina and the bird cage. We'll put
them in Lot D."
"No."
"You'll have to come to it sooner or later. I'M giving up everything.
I'm going to put them down, see."
"No."
And she could get no further than that. The dentist did not lose his
temper, as in the case of the steel engraving or the stone pug dog;
he simply opposed her entreaties and persuasions with a passive, inert
obstinacy that nothing could move.
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