“Ah, no, no!” shouted Maria.  “Fifteen cents for the lot!  I might as well make you a Christmas present!  Besides, I got some gold fillings off him; look at um.”

Zerkow drew a quick breath as the three pellets suddenly flashed in Maria’s palm.  There it was, the virgin metal, the pure, unalloyed ore, his dream, his consuming desire.  His fingers twitched and hooked themselves into his palms, his thin lips drew tight across his teeth.

“Ah, you got some gold,” he muttered, reaching for it.

Maria shut her fist over the pellets.  “The gold goes with the others,” she declared.  “You’ll gi’ me a fair price for the lot, or I’ll take um back.”

In the end a bargain was struck that satisfied Maria.  Zerkow was not one who would let gold go out of his house.  He counted out to her the price of all her junk, grudging each piece of money as if it had been the blood of his veins.  The affair was concluded.

But Zerkow still had something to say.  As Maria folded up the pillow-case and rose to go, the old Jew said: 

“Well, see here a minute, we’ll—­you’ll have a drink before you go, won’t you?  Just to show that it’s all right between us.”  Maria sat down again.

“Yes, I guess I’ll have a drink,” she answered.

Zerkow took down a whiskey bottle and a red glass tumbler with a broken base from a cupboard on the wall.  The two drank together, Zerkow from the bottle, Maria from the broken tumbler.  They wiped their lips slowly, drawing breath again.  There was a moment’s silence.

“Say,” said Zerkow at last, “how about those gold dishes you told me about the last time you were here?”

“What gold dishes?” inquired Maria, puzzled.

“Ah, you know,” returned the other.  “The plate your father owned in Central America a long time ago.  Don’t you know, it rang like so many bells?  Red gold, you know, like oranges?”

“Ah,” said Maria, putting her chin in the air as if she knew a long story about that if she had a mind to tell it.  “Ah, yes, that gold service.”

“Tell us about it again,” said Zerkow, his bloodless lower lip moving against the upper, his claw-like fingers feeling about his mouth and chin.  “Tell us about it; go on.”

He was breathing short, his limbs trembled a little.  It was as if some hungry beast of prey had scented a quarry.  Maria still refused, putting up her head, insisting that she had to be going.

“Let’s have it,” insisted the Jew.  “Take another drink.”  Maria took another swallow of the whiskey.  “Now, go on,” repeated Zerkow; “let’s have the story.”  Maria squared her elbows on the deal table, looking straight in front of her with eyes that saw nothing.