In his Parlors McTeague began his weeks work. He glanced in the glass saucer in which he kept his sponge-gold, and noticing that he had used up all his pellets, set about making some more. In examining Miss Bakers teeth at the preliminary sitting he had found a cavity in one of the incisors. Miss Baker had decided to have it filled with gold. McTeague remembered now that it was what is called a proximate case, where there is not sufficient room to fill with large pieces of gold. He told himself that he should have to use mats in the filling. He made some dozen of these mats from his tape of non-cohesive gold, cutting it transversely into small pieces that could be inserted edgewise between the teeth and consolidated by packing. After he had made his mats he continued with the other kind of gold fillings, such as he would have occasion to use during the week; blocks to be used in large proximal cavities, made by folding the tape on itself a number of times and then shaping it with the soldering pliers; cylinders for commencing fillings, which he formed by rolling the tape around a needle called a broach, cutting it afterwards into different lengths. He worked slowly, mechanically, turning the foil between his fingers with the manual dexterity that one sometimes sees in stupid persons. His head was quite empty of all thought, and he did not whistle over his work as another man might have done. The canary made up for his silence, trilling and chittering continually, splashing about in its morning bath, keeping up an incessant noise and movement that would have been maddening to any one but McTeague, who seemed to have no nerves at all.
After he had finished his fillings, he made a hook broach from a bit of piano wire to replace an old one that he had lost. It was time for his dinner then, and when he returned from the car conductors coffee-joint, he found Miss Baker waiting for him.
The ancient little dressmaker was at all times willing to talk of Old Grannis to anybody that would listen, quite unconscious of the gossip of the flat. McTeague found her all a-flutter with excitement. Something extraordinary had happened. She had found out that the wall-paper in Old Granniss room was the same as that in hers.
It has led me to thinking, Doctor McTeague, she exclaimed, shaking her little false curls at him. You know my room is so small, anyhow, and the wall-paper being the samethe pattern from my room continues right into hisI declare, I believe at one time that was all one room. Think of it, do you suppose it was? It almost amounts to our occupying the same room. I dont knowwhy, reallydo you think I should speak to the landlady about it? He bound pamphlets last night until half-past nine. They say that hes the younger son of a baronet; that there are reasons for his not coming to the title; his stepfather wronged him cruelly.
No one had ever said such a thing. It was preposterous to imagine any mystery connected with Old Grannis. Miss Baker had chosen to invent the little fiction, had created the title and the unjust stepfather from some dim memories of the novels of her girlhood.
She took her place in the operating chair. McTeague began the filling. There was a long silence. It was impossible for McTeague to work and talk at the same time.
He was just burnishing the last mat in Miss Bakers tooth, when the door of the Parlors opened, jangling the bell which he had hung over it, and which was absolutely unnecessary. McTeague turned, one foot on the pedal of his dental engine, the corundum disk whirling between his fingers.
It was Marcus Schouler who came in, ushering a young girl of about twenty.
Hello, Mac, exclaimed Marcus; busy? Brought my cousin round about that broken tooth.
McTeague nodded his head gravely.
In a minute, he answered.
Marcus and his cousin Trina sat down in the rigid chairs underneath the steel engraving of the Court of Lorenzo de Medici. They began talking in low tones. The girl looked about the room, noticing the stone pug dog, the rifle manufacturers calendar, the canary in its little gilt prison, and the tumbled blankets on the unmade bed-lounge against the wall. Marcus began telling her about McTeague. Were pals, he explained, just above a whisper. Ah, Macs all right, you bet. Say, Trina, hes the strongest duck you ever saw. What do you suppose? He can pull out your teeth with his fingers; yes, he can. What do you think of that? With his fingers, mind you; he can, for a fact. Get on to the size of him, anyhow. Ah, Macs all right!
Maria Macapa had come into the room while he had been speaking. She was making up McTeagues bed. Suddenly Marcus exclaimed under his breath: Now well have some fun. Its the girl that takes care of the rooms. Shes a greaser, and shes queer in the head. She aint regularly crazy, but I dont know, shes queer. Yought to hear her go on about a gold dinner service she says her folks used to own. Ask her what her name is and see what shell say. Trina shrank back, a little frightened.
No, you ask, she whispered.
Ah, go on; what you fraid of? urged Marcus. Trina shook her head energetically, shutting her lips together.
Well, listen here, answered Marcus, nudging her; then raising his voice, he said:
How do, Maria? Maria nodded to him over her shoulder as she bent over the lounge.
Workun hard nowadays, Maria?
Pretty hard.
Didunt always have to work for your living, though, did you, when you ate offa gold dishes? Maria didnt answer, except by putting her chin in the air and shutting her eyes, as though to say she knew a long story about that if she had a mind to talk. All Marcuss efforts to draw her out on the subject were unavailing. She only responded by movements of her head.
Cant always start her going, Marcus told his cousin.
What does she do, though, when you ask her about her name?
Oh, sure, said Marcus, who had forgotten. Say, Maria, whats your name?
Huh? asked Maria, straightening up, her hands on he hips.
Tell us your name, repeated Marcus.
Name is MariaMirandaMacapa. Then, after a pause, she added, as though she had but that moment thought of it, Had a flying squirrel an let him go.
Invariably Maria Macapa made this answer. It was not always she would talk about the famous service of gold plate, but a question as to her name never failed to elicit the same strange answer, delivered in a rapid undertone: Name is MariaMirandaMacapa. Then, as if struck with an after thought, Had a flying squirrel an let him go.
Why Maria should associate the release of the mythical squirrel with her name could not be said. About Maria the flat knew absolutely nothing further than that she was Spanish-American. Miss Baker was the oldest lodger in the flat, and Maria was a fixture there as maid of all work when she had come. There was a legend to the effect that Marias people had been at one time immensely wealthy in Central America.
Maria turned again to her work. Trina and Marcus watched her curiously. There was a silence. The corundum burr in McTeagues engine hummed in a prolonged monotone. The canary bird chittered occasionally. The room was warm, and the breathing of the five people in the narrow space made the air close and thick. At long intervals an acrid odor of ink floated up from the branch post-office immediately below.
Maria Macapa finished her work and started to leave. As she passed near Marcus and his cousin she stopped, and drew a bunch of blue tickets furtively from her pocket. Buy a ticket in the lottery? she inquired, looking at the girl. Just a dollar.