“No, no, no,” she said. “I
can’t do it. It may be mean, but I can’t
help it. It’s stronger than I.”
She returned the money to the bag and locked it and
the brass match-box in her trunk, turning the key with
a long breath of satisfaction.
She was a little troubled, however, as she went back
into the sitting-room and took up her work.
“I didn’t use to be so stingy,”
she told herself. “Since I won in the lottery
I’ve become a regular little miser. It’s
growing on me, but never mind, it’s a good fault,
and, anyhow, I can’t help it.”
On that particular morning the McTeagues had risen
a half hour earlier than usual and taken a hurried
breakfast in the kitchen on the deal table with its
oilcloth cover. Trina was house-cleaning that
week and had a presentiment of a hard day’s
work ahead of her, while McTeague remembered a seven
o’clock appointment with a little German shoemaker.
At about eight o’clock, when the dentist had
been in his office for over an hour, Trina descended
upon the bedroom, a towel about her head and the roller-sweeper
in her hand. She covered the bureau and sewing
machine with sheets, and unhooked the chenille portieres
between the bedroom and the sitting-room. As
she was tying the Nottingham lace curtains at the
window into great knots, she saw old Miss Baker on
the opposite sidewalk in the street below, and raising
the sash called down to her.
“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. McTeague,” cried
the retired dressmaker, facing about, her head in
the air. Then a long conversation was begun, Trina,
her arms folded under her breast, her elbows resting
on the window ledge, willing to be idle for a moment;
old Miss Baker, her market-basket on her arm, her
hands wrapped in the ends of her worsted shawl against
the cold of the early morning. They exchanged
phrases, calling to each other from window to curb,
their breath coming from their lips in faint puffs
of vapor, their voices shrill, and raised to dominate
the clamor of the waking street. The newsboys
had made their appearance on the street, together
with the day laborers. The cable cars had begun
to fill up; all along the street could be seen the
shopkeepers taking down their shutters; some were
still breakfasting. Now and then a waiter from
one of the cheap restaurants crossed from one sidewalk
to another, balancing on one palm a tray covered with
a napkin.
“Aren’t you out pretty early this morning,
Miss Baker?” called Trina.
“No, no,” answered the other. “I’m
always up at half-past six, but I don’t always
get out so soon. I wanted to get a nice head of
cabbage and some lentils for a soup, and if you don’t
go to market early, the restaurants get all the best.”
“And you’ve been to market already, Miss
Baker?”
“Oh, my, yes; and I got a fish—a
sole—see.” She drew the sole
in question from her basket.
