“Well, what do you think?” said Trina.

She and McTeague stood in a tiny room at the back of the flat and on its very top floor. The room was whitewashed. It contained a bed, three cane-seated chairs, and a wooden washstand with its washbowl and pitcher. From its single uncurtained window one looked down into the flat’s dirty back yard and upon the roofs of the hovels that bordered the alley in the rear. There was a rag carpet on the floor. In place of a closet some dozen wooden pegs were affixed to the wall over the washstand. There was a smell of cheap soap and of ancient hair-oil in the air.

“That’s a single bed,” said Trina, “but the landlady says she’ll put in a double one for us. You see—”

“I ain’t going to live here,” growled McTeague.

“Well, you’ve got to live somewhere,” said Trina, impatiently. “We’ve looked Polk Street over, and this is the only thing we can afford.”

“Afford, afford,” muttered the dentist. “You with your five thousand dollars, and the two or three hundred you got saved up, talking about ‘afford.’ You make me sick.”

“Now, Mac,” exclaimed Trina, deliberately, sitting down in one of the cane-seated chairs; “now, Mac, let’s have this thing—”

“Well, I don’t figure on living in one room,” growled the dentist, sullenly. “Let’s live decently until we can get a fresh start. We’ve got the money.”

“Who’s got the money?”

“We’ve got it.”

“We!”

“Well, it’s all in the family. What’s yours is mine, and what’s mine is yours, ain’t it?”

“No, it’s not; no, it’s not,” cried Trina, vehemently. “It’s all mine, mine. There’s not a penny of it belongs to anybody else. I don’t like to have to talk this way to you, but you just make me. We’re not going to touch a penny of my five thousand nor a penny of that little money I managed to save—that seventy-five.”

“That two hundred, you mean.”

“That seventy-five. We’re just going to live on the interest of that and on what I earn from Uncle Oelbermann—on just that thirty-one or two dollars.”

“Huh! Think I’m going to do that, an’ live in such a room as this?”

Trina folded her arms and looked him squarely in the face.

“Well, what are you going to do, then?”

“Huh?”

“I say, what are you going to do? You can go on and find something to do and earn some more money, and then we’ll talk.”

“Well, I ain’t going to live here.”

“Oh, very well, suit yourself. I’m going to live here.”

“You’ll live where I tell you,” the dentist suddenly cried, exasperated at the mincing tone she affected.

“Then you’ll pay the rent,” exclaimed Trina, quite as angry as he.

“Are you my boss, I’d like to know? Who’s the boss, you or I?”

“Who’s got the money, I’d like to know?” cried Trina, flushing to her pale lips. “Answer me that, McTeague, who’s got the money?”

“You make me sick, you and your money. Why, you’re a miser. I never saw anything like it. When I was practising, I never thought of my fees as my own; we lumped everything in together.”

“Exactly; and I’m doing the working now. I’m working for Uncle Oelbermann, and you’re not lumping in anything now. I’m doing it all. Do you know what I’m doing, McTeague? I’m supporting you.”

“Ah, shut up; you make me sick.”

“You got no right to talk to me that way. I won’t let you. I—I won’t have it.” She caught her breath. Tears were in her eyes.

“Oh, live where you like, then,” said McTeague, sullenly.

“Well, shall we take this room then?”

“All right, we’ll take it. But why can’t you take a little of your money an’—an’—sort of fix it up?”

“Not a penny, not a single penny.”

“Oh, I don’t care what you do.” And for the rest of the day the dentist and his wife did not speak.

This was not the only quarrel they had during these days when they were occupied in moving from their suite and in looking for new quarters. Every hour the question of money came up. Trina had become more niggardly than ever since the loss of McTeague’s practice. It was not mere economy with her now. It was a panic terror lest a fraction of a cent of her little savings should be touched; a passionate eagerness to continue to save in spite of all that had happened. Trina could have easily afforded better quarters than the single whitewashed room at the top of the flat, but she made McTeague believe that it was impossible.

“I can still save a little,” she said to herself, after the room had been engaged; “perhaps almost as much as ever. I’ll have three hundred dollars pretty soon, and Mac thinks it’s only two hundred. It’s almost two hundred and fifty; and I’ll get a good deal out of the sale.”

But this sale was a long agony. It lasted a week. Everything went—everything but the few big pieces that went with the suite, and that belonged to the photographer. The melodeon, the chairs, the black walnut table before which they were married, the extension table in the sitting-room, the kitchen table with its oilcloth cover, the framed lithographs from the English illustrated papers, the very carpets on the floors. But Trina’s heart nearly broke when the kitchen utensils and furnishings began to go. Every pot, every stewpan, every knife and fork, was an old friend. How she had worked over them! How clean she had kept them! What a pleasure it had been to invade that little brick-paved kitchen every morning, and to wash up and put to rights after breakfast, turning on the hot water at the sink, raking down the ashes in the cookstove, going and coming over the warm bricks, her head in the air, singing at her work, proud in the sense of her proprietorship and her independence! How happy had she been the day after her marriage when she had first entered that kitchen and knew that it was all her own! And how well she remembered her raids upon the bargain counters in the house-furnishing departments of the great downtown stores! And now it was all to go. Someone else would have it all, while she was relegated to cheap restaurants and meals cooked by hired servants. Night after night she sobbed herself to sleep at the thought of her past happiness and her present wretchedness. However, she was not alone in her unhappiness.

“Anyhow, I’m going to keep the steel engraving an’ the stone pug dog,” declared the dentist, his fist clenching. When it had come to the sale of his office effects McTeague had rebelled with the instinctive obstinacy of a boy, shutting his eyes and ears. Only little by little did Trina induce him to part with his office furniture. He fought over every article, over the little iron stove, the bed-lounge, the marble-topped centre table, the whatnot in the corner, the bound volumes of Allen’s Practical Dentist, the rifle manufacturer’s calendar, and the prim, military chairs. A veritable scene took place between him and his wife before he could bring himself to part with the steel engraving of Lorenzo de’ Medici and His Court and the stone pug dog with its goggle eyes.

“Why,” he would cry, “I’ve had ’em ever since—ever since I began; long before I knew you, Trina. That steel engraving I bought in Sacramento one day when it was raining. I saw it in the window of a secondhand 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 secondhand 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. In the end Trina was obliged to submit. McTeague kept his concertina and his canary, even going so far as to put them both away in the bedroom, attaching to them tags on which he had scrawled in immense round letters, “Not for Sale.”

One evening during that same week the dentist and his wife were in the dismantled sitting-room. The room presented the appearance of a wreck. The Nottingham lace curtains were down. The extension table was heaped high with dishes, with tea and coffee pots, and with baskets of spoons and knives and forks. The melodeon was hauled out into the middle of the floor, and covered with a sheet marked “Lot A,” the pictures were in a pile in a corner, the chenille portieres were folded on top of the black walnut table. The room was desolate, lamentable. Trina was going over the inventory; McTeague, in his shirt sleeves, was smoking his pipe, looking stupidly out of the window. All at once there was a brisk rapping at the door.

“Come in,” called Trina, apprehensively. Nowadays at every unexpected visit she anticipated a fresh calamity. The door opened to let in a young man wearing a checked suit, a gay cravat, and a marvellously figured waistcoat. Trina and McTeague recognized him at once. It was the Other Dentist, the debonair fellow whose clients were the barbers and the young women of the candy stores and soda-water fountains, the poser, the wearer of waistcoats, who bet money on greyhound races.

“How’do?” said this one, bowing gracefully to the McTeagues as they stared at him distrustfully.

“How’do? They tell me, Doctor, that you are going out of the profession.”

McTeague muttered indistinctly behind his mustache and glowered at him.

“Well, say,” continued the other, cheerily, “I’d like to talk business with you. That sign of yours, that big golden tooth that you got outside of your window, I don’t suppose you’ll have any further use for it. Maybe I’d buy it if we could agree on terms.”

Trina shot a glance at her husband. McTeague began to glower again.

“What do you say?” said the Other Dentist.

“I guess not,” growled McTeague.

“What do you say to ten dollars?”

“Ten dollars!” cried Trina, her chin in the air.

“Well, what figure do you put on it?”

Trina was about to answer when she was interrupted by McTeague.

“You go out of here.”

“Hey? What?”

“You go out of here.”

The other retreated toward the door.

“You can’t make small of me. Go out of here.”

McTeague came forward a step, his great red fist clenching. The young man fled. But half way down the stairs he paused long enough to call back:

“You don’t want to trade anything for a diploma, do you?”

McTeague and his wife exchanged looks.

“How did he know?” exclaimed Trina, sharply. They had invented and spread the fiction that McTeague was merely retiring from business, without assigning any reason. But evidently every one knew the real cause. The humiliation was complete now. Old Miss Baker confirmed their suspicions on this point the next day. The little retired dressmaker came down and wept with Trina over her misfortune, and did what she could to encourage her. But she too knew that McTeague had been forbidden by the authorities from practising. Marcus had evidently left them no loophole of escape.

“It’s just like cutting off your husband’s hands, my dear,” said Miss Baker. “And you two were so happy. When I first saw you together I said, ‘What a pair!’ ”

Old Grannis also called during this period of the breaking up of the McTeague household.

“Dreadful, dreadful,” murmured the old Englishman, his hand going tremulously to his chin. “It seems unjust; it does. But Mr. Schouler could not have set them on to do it. I can’t quite believe it of him.”

“Of Marcus!” cried Trina. “Hoh! Why, he threw his knife at Mac one time, and another time he bit him, actually bit him with his teeth, while they were wrestling just for fun. Marcus would do anything to injure Mac.”

“Dear, dear,” returned Old Grannis, genuinely pained. “I had always believed Schouler to be such a good fellow.”

“That’s because you’re so good yourself, Mr. Grannis,” responded Trina.

“I tell you what, Doc,” declared Heise the harness-maker, shaking his finger impressively at the dentist, “you must fight it; you must appeal to the courts; you’ve been practising too long to be debarred now. The statute of limitations, you know.”

“No, no,” Trina had exclaimed, when the dentist had repeated this advice to her. “No, no, don’t go near the law courts. I know them. The lawyers take all your money, and you lose your case. We’re bad off as it is, without lawing about it.”

Then at last came the sale. McTeague and Trina, whom Miss Baker had invited to her room for that day, sat there side by side, holding each other’s hands, listening nervously to the turmoil that rose to them from the direction of their suite. From nine o’clock till dark the crowds came and went. All Polk Street seemed to have invaded the suite, lured on by the red flag that waved from the front windows. It was a fête, a veritable holiday, for the whole neighborhood. People with no thought of buying presented themselves. Young women—the candy-store girls and florist’s apprentices—came to see the fun, walking arm in arm from room to room, making jokes about the pretty lithographs and mimicking the picture of the two little girls saying their prayers.

“Look here,” they would cry, “look here what she used for curtains—nottingham lace, actually! Whoever thinks of buying Nottingham lace nowadays? Say, don’t that jar you?”

“And a melodeon,” another one would exclaim, lifting the sheet. “A melodeon, when you can rent a piano for a dollar a week; and say, I really believe they used to eat in the kitchen.”

“Dollarn-half, dollarn-half, dollarn-half, give me two,” intoned the auctioneer from the secondhand store. By noon the crowd became a jam. Wagons backed up to the curb outside and departed heavily laden. In all directions people could be seen going away from the house, carrying small articles of furniture—a clock, a water pitcher, a towel rack. Every now and then old Miss Baker, who had gone below to see how things were progressing, returned with reports of the foray.

“Mrs. Heise bought the chenille portieres. Mister Ryer made a bid for your bed, but a man in a gray coat bid over him. It was knocked down for three dollars and a half. The German shoemaker on the next block bought the stone pug dog. I saw our postman going away with a lot of the pictures. Zerkow has come, on my word! the rags-bottles-sacks man; he’s buying lots; he bought all Doctor McTeague’s gold tape and some of the instruments. Maria’s there too. That dentist on the corner took the dental engine, and wanted to get the sign, the big gold tooth,” and so on and so on. Cruelest of all, however, at least to Trina, was when Miss Baker herself began to buy, unable to resist a bargain. The last time she came up she carried a bundle of the gay tidies that used to hang over the chair backs.

“He offered them, three for a nickel,” she explained to Trina, “and I thought I’d spend just a quarter. You don’t mind, now, do you, Mrs. McTeague?”

“Why, no, of course not, Miss Baker,” answered Trina, bravely.

“They’ll look very pretty on some of my chairs,” went on the little old dressmaker, innocently. “See.” She spread one of them on a chair back for inspection. Trina’s chin quivered.

“Oh, very pretty,” she answered.

At length that dreadful day was over. The crowd dispersed. Even the auctioneer went at last, and as he closed the door with a bang, the reverberation that went through the suite gave evidence of its emptiness.

“Come,” said Trina to the dentist, “let’s go down and look—take a last look.”

They went out of Miss Baker’s room and descended to the floor below. On the stairs, however, they were met by Old Grannis. In his hands he carried a little package. Was it possible that he too had taken advantage of their misfortunes to join in the raid upon the suite?

“I went in,” he began, timidly, “for—for a few moments. This”—he indicated the little package he carried—“this was put up. It was of no value but to you. I—I ventured to bid it in. I thought perhaps”—his hand went to his chin, “that you wouldn’t mind; that—in fact, I bought it for you—as a present. Will you take it?” He handed the package to Trina and hurried on. Trina tore off the wrappings.

It was the framed photograph of McTeague and his wife in their wedding finery, the one that had been taken immediately after the marriage. It represented Trina sitting very erect in a rep armchair, holding her wedding bouquet straight before her, McTeague standing at her side, his left foot forward, one hand upon her shoulder, and the other thrust into the breast of his “Prince Albert” coat, in the attitude of a statue of a Secretary of State.

“Oh, it was good of him, it was good of him,” cried Trina, her eyes filling again. “I had forgotten to put it away. Of course it was not for sale.”

They went on down the stairs, and arriving at the door of the sitting-room, opened it and looked in. It was late in the afternoon, and there was just light enough for the dentist and his wife to see the results of that day of sale. Nothing was left, not even the carpet. It was a pillage, a devastation, the barrenness of a field after the passage of a swarm of locusts. The room had been picked and stripped till only the bare walls and floor remained. Here where they had been married, where the wedding supper had taken place, where Trina had bade farewell to her father and mother, here where she had spent those first few hard months of her married life, where afterward she had grown to be happy and contented, where she had passed the long hours of the afternoon at her work of whittling, and where she and her husband had spent so many evenings looking out of the window before the lamp was lit—here in what had been her home, nothing was left but echoes and the emptiness of complete desolation. Only one thing remained. On the wall between the windows, in its oval glass frame, preserved by some unknown and fearful process, a melancholy relic of a vanished happiness, unsold, neglected, and forgotten, a thing that nobody wanted, hung Trina’s wedding bouquet.