McTeague rose to his feet, his eyes wide.  But as yet he was not angry, only surprised, taken all aback by the suddenness of Marcus Schouler’s outbreak as well as by its unreasonableness.  Why had Marcus broken his pipe?  What did it all mean, anyway?  As he rose the dentist made a vague motion with his right hand.  Did Marcus misinterpret it as a gesture of menace?  He sprang back as though avoiding a blow.  All at once there was a cry.  Marcus had made a quick, peculiar motion, swinging his arm upward with a wide and sweeping gesture; his jack-knife lay open in his palm; it shot forward as he flung it, glinted sharply by McTeague’s head, and struck quivering into the wall behind.

A sudden chill ran through the room; the others stood transfixed, as at the swift passage of some cold and deadly wind.  Death had stooped there for an instant, had stooped and past, leaving a trail of terror and confusion.  Then the door leading to the street slammed; Marcus had disappeared.

Thereon a great babel of exclamation arose.  The tension of that all but fatal instant snapped, and speech became once more possible.

“He would have knifed you.”

“Narrow escape.”

“What kind of a man do you call that?”

“’Tain’t his fault he ain’t a murderer.”

“I’d have him up for it.”

“And they two have been the greatest kind of friends.”

“He didn’t touch you, did he?”

“No—­no—­no.”

“What a—­what a devil!  What treachery!  A regular greaser trick!”

“Look out he don’t stab you in the back.  If that’s the kind of man he is, you never can tell.”

Frenna drew the knife from the wall.

“Guess I’ll keep this toad-stabber,” he observed.  “That fellow won’t come round for it in a hurry; goodsized blade, too.”  The group examined it with intense interest.

“Big enough to let the life out of any man,” observed Heise.

“What—­what—­what did he do it for?” stammered McTeague.  “I got no quarrel with him.”

He was puzzled and harassed by the strangeness of it all.  Marcus would have killed him; had thrown his knife at him in the true, uncanny “greaser” style.  It was inexplicable.  McTeague sat down again, looking stupidly about on the floor.  In a corner of the room his eye encountered his broken pipe, a dozen little fragments of painted porcelain and the stem of cherry wood and amber.

At that sight his tardy wrath, ever lagging behind the original affront, suddenly blazed up.  Instantly his huge jaws clicked together.

“He can’t make small of me,” he exclaimed, suddenly.  “I’ll show Marcus Schouler—­I’ll show him—­I’ll——­”

He got up and clapped on his hat.

“Now, Doctor,” remonstrated Heise, standing between him and the door, “don’t go make a fool of yourself.”

“Let ’um alone,” joined in Frenna, catching the dentist by the arm; “he’s full, anyhow.”