McTeague | Page 9

nodded his head gravely.
"In a minute," he answered.
Marcus and his cousin Trina sat down in the rigid chairs underneath the
steel engraving of the Court of Lorenzo de' Medici. They began talking
in low tones. The girl looked about the room, noticing the stone pug
dog, the rifle manufacturer's calendar, the canary in its little gilt prison,
and the tumbled blankets on the unmade bed-lounge against the wall.
Marcus began telling her about McTeague. "We're pals," he explained,
just above a whisper. "Ah, Mac's all right, you bet. Say, Trina, he's the
strongest duck you ever saw. What do you suppose? He can pull out
your teeth with his fingers; yes, he can. What do you think of that?
With his fingers, mind you; he can, for a fact. Get on to the size of him,
anyhow. Ah, Mac's all right!"
Maria Macapa had come into the room while he had been speaking.
She was making up McTeague's bed. Suddenly Marcus exclaimed

under his breath: "Now we'll have some fun. It's the girl that takes care
of the rooms. She's a greaser, and she's queer in the head. She ain't
regularly crazy, but I don't know, she's queer. Y'ought to hear her go on
about a gold dinner service she says her folks used to own. Ask her
what her name is and see what she'll say." Trina shrank back, a little
frightened.
"No, you ask," she whispered.
"Ah, go on; what you 'fraid of?" urged Marcus. Trina shook her head
energetically, shutting her lips together.
"Well, listen here," answered Marcus, nudging her; then raising his
voice, he said:
"How do, Maria?" Maria nodded to him over her shoulder as she bent
over the lounge.
"Workun hard nowadays, Maria?"
"Pretty hard."
"Didunt always have to work for your living, though, did you, when
you ate offa gold dishes?" Maria didn't answer, except by putting her
chin in the air and shutting her eyes, as though to say she knew a long
story about that if she had a mind to talk. All Marcus's efforts to draw
her out on the subject were unavailing. She only responded by
movements of her head.
"Can't always start her going," Marcus told his cousin.
"What does she do, though, when you ask her about her name?"
"Oh, sure," said Marcus, who had forgotten. "Say, Maria, what's your
name?"
"Huh?" asked Maria, straightening up, her hands on he hips.
"Tell us your name," repeated Marcus.

"Name is Maria--Miranda--Macapa." Then, after a pause, she added, as
though she had but that moment thought of it, "Had a flying squirrel an'
let him go."
Invariably Maria Macapa made this answer. It was not always she
would talk about the famous service of gold plate, but a question as to
her name never failed to elicit the same strange answer, delivered in a
rapid undertone: "Name is Maria--Miranda--Macapa." Then, as if
struck with an after thought, "Had a flying squirrel an' let him go."
Why Maria should associate the release of the mythical squirrel with
her name could not be said. About Maria the flat knew absolutely
nothing further than that she was Spanish-American. Miss Baker was
the oldest lodger in the flat, and Maria was a fixture there as maid of all
work when she had come. There was a legend to the effect that Maria's
people had been at one time immensely wealthy in Central America.
Maria turned again to her work. Trina and Marcus watched her
curiously. There was a silence. The corundum burr in McTeague's
engine hummed in a prolonged monotone. The canary bird chittered
occasionally. The room was warm, and the breathing of the five people
in the narrow space made the air close and thick. At long intervals an
acrid odor of ink floated up from the branch post-office immediately
below.
Maria Macapa finished her work and started to leave. As she passed
near Marcus and his cousin she stopped, and drew a bunch of blue
tickets furtively from her pocket. "Buy a ticket in the lottery?" she
inquired, looking at the girl. "Just a dollar."
"Go along with you, Maria," said Marcus, who had but thirty cents in
his pocket. "Go along; it's against the law."
"Buy a ticket," urged Maria, thrusting the bundle toward Trina. "Try
your luck. The butcher on the next block won twenty dollars the last
drawing."
Very uneasy, Trina bought a ticket for the sake of being rid of her.

Maria disappeared.
"Ain't she a queer bird?" muttered Marcus. He was much embarrassed
and disturbed because he had not bought the ticket for Trina.
But there was a sudden movement. McTeague had just finished with
Miss Baker.
"You should notice," the dressmaker said to the dentist, in a low voice,
"he always leaves the door a little