As he paused to strop his razor, Marcus came into his room, half-dressed, a startling phantom in red flannels.

      Marcus often ran back and forth between his room and the dentist's “Parlors” in all sorts of undress. Old Miss Baker had seen him thus several times through her half-open door, as she sat in her room listening and waiting. The old dressmaker was shocked out of all expression. She was outraged, offended, pursing her lips, putting up her head. She talked of complaining to the landlady. “And Mr. Grannis right next door, too. You can understand how trying it is for both of us.” She would come out in the hall after one of these apparitions, her little false curls shaking, talking loud and shrill to any one in reach of her voice.

      “Well,” Marcus would shout, “shut your door, then, if you don't want to see. Look out, now, here I come again. Not even a porous plaster on me this time.”

      On this Wednesday morning Marcus called McTeague out into the hall, to the head of the stairs that led down to the street door.

      “Come and listen to Maria, Mac,” said he.

      Maria sat on the next to the lowest step, her chin propped by her two fists. The red-headed Polish Jew, the ragman Zerkow, stood in the doorway. He was talking eagerly.

      “Now, just once more, Maria,” he was saying. “Tell it to us just once more.” Maria's voice came up the stairway in a monotone. Marcus and McTeague caught a phrase from time to time.

      “There were more than a hundred pieces, and every one of them gold—just that punch-bowl was worth a fortune-thick, fat, red gold.”

      “Get onto to that, will you?” observed Marcus. “The old skin has got her started on the plate. Ain't they a pair for you?”

      “And it rang like bells, didn't it?” prompted Zerkow.

      “Sweeter'n church bells, and clearer.”

      “Ah, sweeter'n bells. Wasn't that punch-bowl awful heavy?”

      “All you could do to lift it.”

      “I know. Oh, I know,” answered Zerkow, clawing at his lips. “Where did it all go to? Where did it go?”

      Maria shook her head.

      “It's gone, anyhow.”

      “Ah, gone, gone! Think of it! The punch-bowl gone, and the engraved ladle, and the plates and goblets. What a sight it must have been all heaped together!”

      “It was a wonderful sight.”

      “Yes, wonderful; it must have been.”

      On the lower steps of that cheap flat, the Mexican woman and the red-haired Polish Jew mused long over that vanished, half-mythical gold plate.

      Marcus and the dentist spent Washington's Birthday across the bay. The journey over was one long agony to McTeague. He shook with a formless, uncertain dread; a dozen times he would have turned back had not Marcus been with him. The stolid giant was as nervous as a schoolboy. He fancied that his call upon Miss Sieppe was an outrageous affront. She would freeze him with a stare; he would be shown the door, would be ejected, disgraced.

      As they got off the local train at B Street station they suddenly collided with the whole tribe of Sieppes—the mother, father, three children, and Trina—equipped for one of their eternal picnics. They were to go to Schuetzen Park, within walking distance of the station. They were grouped about four lunch baskets. One of the children, a little boy, held a black greyhound by a rope around its neck. Trina wore a blue cloth skirt, a striped shirt waist, and a white sailor; about her round waist was a belt of imitation alligator skin.

      At once Mrs. Sieppe began to talk to Marcus. He had written of their coming, but the picnic had been decided upon after the arrival of his letter. Mrs. Sieppe explained this to him. She was an immense old lady with a pink face and wonderful hair, absolutely white. The Sieppes were a German-Swiss family.

      “We go to der park, Schuetzen Park, mit alle dem childern, a little eggs-kursion, eh not soh? We breathe der freshes air, a celubration, a pignic bei der seashore on. Ach, dot wull be soh gay, ah?”

      “You bet it will. It'll be outa sight,” cried Marcus, enthusiastic in an instant. “This is m' friend Doctor McTeague I wrote you about, Mrs. Sieppe.”

      “Ach, der doktor,” cried Mrs. Sieppe.

      McTeague was presented, shaking hands gravely as Marcus shouldered him from one to the other.

      Mr. Sieppe was a little man of a military aspect, full of importance, taking himself very seriously. He was a member of a rifle team. Over his shoulder was slung a Springfield rifle, while his breast was decorated by five bronze medals.

      Trina was delighted. McTeague was dumfounded. She appeared positively glad to see him.

      “How do you do, Doctor McTeague,” she said, smiling at him and shaking his hand. “It's nice to see you again. Look, see how fine my filling is.” She lifted a corner of her lip and showed him the clumsy gold bridge.

      Meanwhile, Mr. Sieppe toiled and perspired. Upon him devolved the responsibility of the excursion. He seemed to consider it a matter of vast importance, a veritable expedition.

      “Owgooste!” he shouted to the little boy with the black greyhound, “you will der hound und basket number three carry. Der tervins,” he added, calling to the two smallest boys, who were dressed exactly alike, “will releef one unudder mit der camp-stuhl und basket number four. Dat is comprehend, hay? When we make der start, you childern will in der advance march. Dat is your orders. But we do not start,” he exclaimed, excitedly; “we remain. Ach Gott, Selina, who does not arrive.”

      Selina, it appeared, was a niece of Mrs. Sieppe's. They were on the point of starting without her, when she suddenly arrived, very much out of breath. She was a slender, unhealthy looking girl, who overworked herself giving lessons in hand-painting at twenty-five cents an hour. McTeague was presented. They all began to talk at once, filling the little station-house with a confusion of tongues.

      “Attention!” cried Mr. Sieppe, his gold-headed cane in one hand, his Springfield in the other. “Attention! We depart.” The four little boys moved off ahead; the greyhound suddenly began to bark, and tug at his leash. The others picked up their bundles.

      “Vorwarts!” shouted Mr. Sieppe, waving his rifle and assuming the attitude of a lieutenant of infantry leading a charge. The party set off down the railroad track.

      Mrs. Sieppe walked with her husband, who constantly left her side to shout an order up and down the line. Marcus followed with Selina. McTeague found himself with Trina at the end of the procession.

      “We go off on these picnics almost every week,” said Trina, by way of a beginning, “and almost every holiday, too. It is a custom.”

      “Yes, yes, a custom,” answered