“Huh?  Right now?  No, I’m tired.  I’ll go down in the morning.”

“Mac,” cried Trina, in alarm, “what are you thinking of?  You talk as though we were millionaires.  You must go down this minute.  You’re losing money every second you sit there.”  She goaded the huge fellow to his feet again, thrust his hat into his hands, and pushed him out of the door, he obeying the while, docile and obedient as a big cart horse.  He was on the stairs when she came running after him.

“Mac, they paid you off, didn’t they, when they discharged you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must have some money.  Give it to me.”

The dentist heaved a shoulder uneasily.

“No, I don’ want to.”

“I’ve got to have that money.  There’s no more oil for the stove, and I must buy some more meal tickets to-night.”

“Always after me about money,” muttered the dentist; but he emptied his pockets for her, nevertheless.

“I—­you’ve taken it all,” he grumbled.  “Better leave me something for car fare.  It’s going to rain.”

“Pshaw!  You can walk just as well as not.  A big fellow like you ’fraid of a little walk; and it ain’t going to rain.”

Trina had lied again both as to the want of oil for the stove and the commutation ticket for the restaurant.  But she knew by instinct that McTeague had money about him, and she did not intend to let it go out of the house.  She listened intently until she was sure McTeague was gone.  Then she hurriedly opened her trunk and hid the money in the chamois bag at the bottom.

The dentist presented himself at every one of the makers of surgical instruments that afternoon and was promptly turned away in each case.  Then it came on to rain, a fine, cold drizzle, that chilled him and wet him to the bone.  He had no umbrella, and Trina had not left him even five cents for car fare.  He started to walk home through the rain.  It was a long way to Polk Street, as the last manufactory he had visited was beyond even Folsom Street, and not far from the city front.

By the time McTeague reached Polk Street his teeth were chattering with the cold.  He was wet from head to foot.  As he was passing Heise’s harness shop a sudden deluge of rain overtook him and he was obliged to dodge into the vestibule for shelter.  He, who loved to be warm, to sleep and to be well fed, was icy cold, was exhausted and footsore from tramping the city.  He could look forward to nothing better than a badly-cooked supper at the coffee-joint—­hot meat on a cold plate, half done suet pudding, muddy coffee, and bad bread, and he was cold, miserably cold, and wet to the bone.  All at once a sudden rage against Trina took possession of him.  It was her fault.  She knew it was going to rain, and she had not let him have a nickel for car fare—­she who had five thousand dollars.  She let him walk the streets in the cold and in the rain.  “Miser,” he growled behind his mustache.  “Miser,