"I--you've taken it all," he grumbled. "Better leave me something for
car fare. It's going to rain."
"Pshaw! You can walk just as well as not. A big fellow like you 'fraid
of a little walk; and it ain't going to rain."
Trina had lied again both as to the want of oil for the stove and the
commutation ticket for the restaurant. But she knew by instinct that
McTeague had money about him, and she did not intend to let it go out of
the house. She listened intently until she was sure McTeague was gone.
Then she hurriedly opened her trunk and hid the money in the chamois bag
at the bottom.
The dentist presented himself at every one of the makers of surgical
instruments that afternoon and was promptly turned away in each case.
Then it came on to rain, a fine, cold drizzle, that chilled him and wet
him to the bone. He had no umbrella, and Trina had not left him even
five cents for car fare. He started to walk home through the rain. It
was a long way to Polk Street, as the last manufactory he had visited
was beyond even Folsom Street, and not far from the city front.
By the time McTeague reached Polk Street his teeth were chattering
with the cold. He was wet from head to foot.
Pages:
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348