The fellow was actually wearing a velvet smoking jacket.  A cigarette was between his lips; his patent leather boots reflected the firelight.  McTeague wore a black surah neglige shirt without a cravat; huge buckled brogans, hob-nailed, gross, encased his feet; the hems of his trousers were spotted with mud; his coat was frayed at the sleeves and a button was gone.  In three days he had not shaved; his shock of heavy blond hair escaped from beneath the visor of his woollen cap and hung low over his forehead.  He stood with awkward, shifting feet and uncertain eyes before the dapper young fellow who reeked of the barber shop, and whom he had once ordered from his rooms.

“What can I do for you this morning, Mister McTeague?  Something wrong with the teeth, eh?”

“No, no.”  McTeague, floundering in the difficulties of his speech, forgot the carefully rehearsed words with which he had intended to begin this interview.

“I want to sell you my sign,” he said, stupidly.  “That big tooth of French gilt—­you know—­that you made an offer for once.”

“Oh, I don’t want that now,” said the other loftily.  “I prefer a little quiet signboard, nothing pretentious—­just the name, and ‘Dentist’ after it.  These big signs are vulgar.  No, I don’t want it.”

McTeague remained, looking about on the floor, horribly embarrassed, not knowing whether to go or to stay.

“But I don’t know,” said the Other Dentist, reflectively.  “If it will help you out any—­I guess you’re pretty hard up—­I’ll—­well, I tell you what—­I’ll give you five dollars for it.”

“All right, all right.”

On the following Thursday morning McTeague woke to hear the eaves dripping and the prolonged rattle of the rain upon the roof.

“Raining,” he growled, in deep disgust, sitting up in bed, and winking at the blurred window.

“It’s been raining all night,” said Trina.  She was already up and dressed, and was cooking breakfast on the oil stove.

McTeague dressed himself, grumbling, “Well, I’ll go, anyhow.  The fish will bite all the better for the rain.”

“Look here, Mac,” said Trina, slicing a bit of bacon as thinly as she could.  “Look here, why don’t you bring some of your fish home sometime?”

“Huh!” snorted the dentist, “so’s we could have ’em for breakfast.  Might save you a nickel, mightn’t it?”

“Well, and if it did!  Or you might fish for the market.  The fisherman across the street would buy ’em of you.”

“Shut up!” exclaimed the dentist, and Trina obediently subsided.

“Look here,” continued her husband, fumbling in his trousers pocket and bringing out a dollar, “I’m sick and tired of coffee and bacon and mashed potatoes.  Go over to the market and get some kind of meat for breakfast.  Get a steak, or chops, or something.

“Why, Mac, that’s a whole dollar, and he only gave you five for your sign.  We can’t afford it.  Sure, Mac.  Let me put that money away against a rainy day.  You’re just as well off without meat for breakfast.”