A little before supper time Maria completed her search.  The flat was cleaned of its junk from top to bottom.  The dirty pillow-case was full to bursting.  She took advantage of the supper hour to carry her bundle around the corner and up into the alley where Zerkow lived.

When Maria entered his shop, Zerkow had just come in from his daily rounds.  His decrepit wagon stood in front of his door like a stranded wreck; the miserable horse, with its lamentable swollen joints, fed greedily upon an armful of spoiled hay in a shed at the back.

The interior of the junk shop was dark and damp, and foul with all manner of choking odors.  On the walls, on the floor, and hanging from the rafters was a world of debris, dust-blackened, rust-corroded.  Everything was there, every trade was represented, every class of society; things of iron and cloth and wood; all the detritus that a great city sloughs off in its daily life.  Zerkow’s junk shop was the last abiding-place, the almshouse, of such articles as had outlived their usefulness.

Maria found Zerkow himself in the back room, cooking some sort of a meal over an alcohol stove.  Zerkow was a Polish Jew—­curiously enough his hair was fiery red.  He was a dry, shrivelled old man of sixty odd.  He had the thin, eager, cat-like lips of the covetous; eyes that had grown keen as those of a lynx from long searching amidst muck and debris; and claw-like, prehensile fingers—­the fingers of a man who accumulates, but never disburses.  It was impossible to look at Zerkow and not know instantly that greed—­inordinate, insatiable greed—­was the dominant passion of the man.  He was the Man with the Rake, groping hourly in the muck-heap of the city for gold, for gold, for gold.  It was his dream, his passion; at every instant he seemed to feel the generous solid weight of the crude fat metal in his palms.  The glint of it was constantly in his eyes; the jangle of it sang forever in his ears as the jangling of cymbals.

“Who is it?  Who is it?” exclaimed Zerkow, as he heard Maria’s footsteps in the outer room.  His voice was faint, husky, reduced almost to a whisper by his prolonged habit of street crying.

“Oh, it’s you again, is it?” he added, peering through the gloom of the shop.  “Let’s see; you’ve been here before, ain’t you?  You’re the Mexican woman from Polk Street.  Macapa’s your name, hey?”

Maria nodded.  “Had a flying squirrel an’ let him go,” she muttered, absently.  Zerkow was puzzled; he looked at her sharply for a moment, then dismissed the matter with a movement of his head.

“Well, what you got for me?” he said.  He left his supper to grow cold, absorbed at once in the affair.

Then a long wrangle began.  Every bit of junk in Maria’s pillow-case was discussed and weighed and disputed.  They clamored into each other’s faces over Old Grannis’s cracked pitcher, over Miss Baker’s silk gaiters, over Marcus Schouler’s whiskey flasks, reaching the climax of disagreement when it came to McTeague’s instruments.