McTeague returned to his work.  At six in the morning his shift was taken off, and he went out of the mine and back to the bunk house.  All day long he slept, flung at length upon the strong-smelling blankets—­slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion, crushed and overpowered with the work, flat and prone upon his belly, till again in the evening the cook sounded the alarm upon the crowbar bent into a triangle.

Every alternate week the shifts were changed.  The second week McTeague’s shift worked in the daytime and slept at night.  Wednesday night of this second week the dentist woke suddenly.  He sat up in his bed in the bunk house, looking about him from side to side; an alarm clock hanging on the wall, over a lantern, marked half-past three.

“What was it?” muttered the dentist.  “I wonder what it was.”  The rest of the shift were sleeping soundly, filling the room with the rasping sound of snoring.  Everything was in its accustomed place; nothing stirred.  But for all that McTeague got up and lit his miner’s candlestick and went carefully about the room, throwing the light into the dark corners, peering under all the beds, including his own.  Then he went to the door and stepped outside.  The night was warm and still; the moon, very low, and canted on her side like a galleon foundering.  The camp was very quiet; nobody was in sight.  “I wonder what it was,” muttered the dentist.  “There was something—­why did I wake up?  Huh?” He made a circuit about the bunk house, unusually alert, his small eyes twinkling rapidly, seeing everything.  All was quiet.  An old dog who invariably slept on the steps of the bunk house had not even wakened.  McTeague went back to bed, but did not sleep.

“There was something,” he muttered, looking in a puzzled way at his canary in the cage that hung from the wall at his bedside; “something.  What was it?  There is something now.  There it is again—­the same thing.”  He sat up in bed with eyes and ears strained.  “What is it?  I don’ know what it is.  I don’ hear anything, an’ I don’ see anything.  I feel something—­right now; feel it now.  I wonder—­I don’ know—­I don’ know.”

Once more he got up, and this time dressed himself.  He made a complete tour of the camp, looking and listening, for what he did not know.  He even went to the outskirts of the camp and for nearly half an hour watched the road that led into the camp from the direction of Iowa Hill.  He saw nothing; not even a rabbit stirred.  He went to bed.

But from this time on there was a change.  The dentist grew restless, uneasy.  Suspicion of something, he could not say what, annoyed him incessantly.  He went wide around sharp corners.  At every moment he looked sharply over his shoulder.  He even went to bed with his clothes and cap on, and at every hour during the night would get up and prowl about the bunk house, one ear turned down the wind, his eyes gimleting the darkness.  From time to time he would murmur: