Maria showed Trina the holes in the walls and the loosened boards in the flooring where Zerkow had been searching for the gold plate. Of late he had been digging in the back yard and had ransacked the hay in his horse-shed for the concealed leather chest he imagined he would find. But he was becoming impatient, evidently.
“The way he goes on,” Maria told Trina, “is somethun dreadful. He’s gettun regularly sick with it—got a fever every night—don’t sleep, and when he does, talks to himself. Says ‘More’n a hundred pieces, an’ every one of ’em gold. More’n a hundred pieces, an’ every one of ’em gold.’ Then he’ll whale me with his whip, and shout, ‘You know where it is. Tell me, tell me, you swine, or I’ll do for you.’ An’ then he’ll get down on his knees and whimper, and beg me to tell um where I’ve hid it. He’s just gone plum crazy. Sometimes he has regular fits, he gets so mad, and rolls on the floor and scratches himself.”
One morning in November, about ten o’clock, Trina pasted a “Made in France” label on the bottom of a Noah’s ark, and leaned back in her chair with a long sigh of relief. She had just finished a large Christmas order for Uncle Oelbermann, and there was nothing else she could do that morning. The bed had not yet been made, nor had the breakfast things been washed. Trina hesitated for a moment, then put her chin in the air indifferently.
“Bah!” she said, “let them go till this afternoon. I don’t care when the room is put to rights, and I know Mac don’t.” She determined that instead of making the bed or washing the dishes she would go and call on Miss Baker on the floor below. The little dressmaker might ask her to stay to lunch, and that would be something saved, as the dentist had announced his intention that morning of taking a long walk out to the Presidio to be gone all day.
But Trina rapped on Miss Baker’s door in vain that morning. She was out. Perhaps she was gone to the florist’s to buy some geranium seeds. However, Old Grannis’s door stood a little ajar, and on hearing Trina at Miss Baker’s room, the old Englishman came out into the hall.
“She’s gone out,” he said, uncertainly, and in a half whisper, “went out about half an hour ago. I—I think she went to the drug store to get some wafers for the goldfish.”
“Don’t you go to your dog hospital any more, Mister Grannis?” said Trina, leaning against the balustrade in the hall, willing to talk a moment.
Old Grannis stood in the doorway of his room, in his carpet slippers and faded corduroy jacket that he wore when at home.
“Why—why,” he said, hesitating, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “You see I’m thinking of giving up the little hospital.”
“Giving it up?”
“You see, the people at the book store where I buy my pamphlets have found out—I told them of my contrivance for binding books, and one of the members of the firm came up to look at it. He offered me quite a sum if I would sell him the right of it—the—patent of it—quite a sum. In fact—in fact—yes, quite a sum, quite.” He rubbed his chin tremulously and looked about him on the floor.
“Why, isn’t that fine?” said Trina, good-naturedly. “I’m very glad, Mister Grannis. Is it a good price?”
“Quite a sum—quite. In fact, I never dreamed of having so much money.”
“Now, see here, Mister Grannis,” said Trina, decisively, “I want to give you a good piece of advice. Here are you and Miss Baker—” The old Englishman started nervously—“You and Miss Baker, that have been in love with each other for—”
“Oh, Mrs. McTeague, that subject—if you would please—Miss Baker is such an estimable lady.”
“Fiddlesticks!” said Trina. “You’re in love with each other, and the whole flat knows it; and you two have been living here side by side year in and year out, and you’ve never said a word to each other. It’s all nonsense. Now, I want you should go right in and speak to her just as soon as she comes home, and say you’ve come into money and you want her to marry you.”
“Impossible—impossible!” exclaimed the old Englishman, alarmed and perturbed. “It’s quite out of the question. I wouldn’t presume.”
“Well, do you love her, or not?”
“Really, Mrs. McTeague, I—I—you must excuse me. It’s a matter so personal—so—I—Oh, yes, I love her. Oh, yes, indeed,” he exclaimed, suddenly.
“Well, then, she loves you. She told me so.”
“Oh!”
“She did. She said those very words.”
Miss Baker had said nothing of the kind—would have died sooner than have made such a confession; but Trina had drawn her own conclusions, like every other lodger of the flat, and thought the time was come for decided action.
“Now you do just as I tell you, and when she comes home, go right in and see her, and have it over with. Now, don’t say another word. I’m going; but you do just as I tell you.”
Trina turned about and went downstairs. She had decided, since Miss Baker was not at home, that she would run over and see Maria; possibly she could have lunch there. At any rate, Maria would offer her a cup of tea.
Old Grannis stood for a long time just as Trina had left him, his hands trembling, the blood coming and going in his withered cheeks.
“She said, she—she—she told her—she said that—that—” he could get no farther.
Then
