The red-headed Pole was in a fever of excitement.  Maria’s recital had become a veritable mania with him.  As he listened, with closed eyes and trembling lips, he fancied he could see that wonderful plate before him, there on the table, under his eyes, under his hand, ponderous, massive, gleaming.  He tormented Maria into a second repetition of the story—­into a third.  The more his mind dwelt upon it, the sharper grew his desire.  Then, with Maria’s refusal to continue the tale, came the reaction.  Zerkow awoke as from some ravishing dream.  The plate was gone, was irretrievably lost.  There was nothing in that miserable room but grimy rags and rust-corroded iron.  What torment! what agony! to be so near—­so near, to see it in one’s distorted fancy as plain as in a mirror.  To know every individual piece as an old friend; to feel its weight; to be dazzled by its glitter; to call it one’s own, own; to have it to oneself, hugged to the breast; and then to start, to wake, to come down to the horrible reality.

“And you, you had it once,” gasped Zerkow, clawing at her arm; “you had it once, all your own.  Think of it, and now it’s gone.”

“Gone for good and all.”

“Perhaps it’s buried near your old place somewhere.”

“It’s gone—­gone—­gone,” chanted Maria in a monotone.

Zerkow dug his nails into his scalp, tearing at his red hair.

“Yes, yes, it’s gone, it’s gone—­lost forever!  Lost forever!”

Marcus and the dentist walked up the silent street and reached the little dog hospital.  They had hardly spoken on the way.  McTeague’s brain was in a whirl; speech failed him.  He was busy thinking of the great thing that had happened that night, and was trying to realize what its effect would be upon his life—­his life and Trina’s.  As soon as they had found themselves in the street, Marcus had relapsed at once to a sullen silence, which McTeague was too abstracted to notice.

They entered the tiny office of the hospital with its red carpet, its gas stove, and its colored prints of famous dogs hanging against the walls.  In one corner stood the iron bed which they were to occupy.

“You go on an’ get to bed, Mac,” observed Marcus.  “I’ll take a look at the dogs before I turn in.”

He went outside and passed along into the yard, that was bounded on three sides by pens where the dogs were kept.  A bull terrier dying of gastritis recognized him and began to whimper feebly.

Marcus paid no attention to the dogs.  For the first time that evening he was alone and could give vent to his thoughts.  He took a couple of turns up and down the yard, then suddenly in a low voice exclaimed: 

“You fool, you fool, Marcus Schouler!  If you’d kept Trina you’d have had that money.  You might have had it yourself.  You’ve thrown away your chance in life—­to give up the girl, yes—­but this,” he stamped his foot with rage—­“to throw five thousand dollars out of the window—­to stuff it into the pockets of someone else, when it might have been yours, when you might have had Trina and the money—­and all for what?  Because we were pals.  Oh, ‘pals’ is all right—­but five thousand dollars—­to have played it right into his hands—­God damn the luck!”