Essential Novelists - Frank Norris. Frank Norris
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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 McTeague, nodding; “a custom—that's the word.”
“Don't you think picnics are fine fun, Doctor McTeague?” she continued. “You take your lunch; you leave the dirty city all day; you race about in the open air, and when lunchtime comes, oh, aren't you hungry? And the woods and the grass smell so fine!”
“I don' know, Miss Sieppe,” he answered, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground between the rails. “I never went on a picnic.”
“Never went on a picnic?” she cried, astonished. “Oh, you'll see what fun we'll have. In the morning father and the children dig clams in the mud by the shore, an' we bake them, and—oh, there's thousands of things to do.”
“Once I went sailing on the bay,” said McTeague. “It was in a tugboat; we fished off the heads. I caught three codfishes.”
“I'm afraid to go out on the bay,” answered Trina, shaking her head, “sailboats tip over so easy. A cousin of mine, Selina's brother, was drowned one Decoration Day. They never found his body. Can you swim, Doctor McTeague?”
“I used to at the mine.”
“At the mine? Oh, yes, I remember, Marcus told me you were a miner once.”
“I was a car-boy; all the car-boys used to swim in the reservoir by the ditch every Thursday evening. One of them was bit by a rattlesnake once while he was dressing. He was a Frenchman, named Andrew. He swelled up and began to twitch.”
“Oh, how I hate snakes! They're so crawly and graceful—but, just the same, I like to watch them. You know that drug store over in town that has a showcase full of live ones?”
“We killed the rattler with a cart whip.”
“How far do you think you could swim? Did you ever try? D'you think you could swim a mile?”
“A mile? I don't know. I never tried. I guess I could.”
“I can swim a little. Sometimes we all go out to the Crystal Baths.”
“The Crystal Baths, huh? Can you swim across the tank?”
“Oh, I can swim all right as long as papa holds my chin up. Soon as he takes his hand away, down I go. Don't you hate to get water in your ears?”
“Bathing's good for you.”
“If the water's too warm, it isn't. It weakens you.”
Mr. Sieppe came running down the tracks, waving his cane.
“To one side,” he shouted, motioning them off the track; “der drain gomes.” A local passenger train was just passing B Street station, some quarter of a mile behind them. The party stood to one side to let it pass. Marcus put a nickel and two crossed pins upon the rail, and waved his hat to the passengers as the train roared past. The children shouted shrilly. When the train was gone, they all rushed to see the nickel and the crossed pins. The nickel had been jolted off, but the pins had been flattened out so that they bore a faint resemblance to opened scissors. A great contention arose among the children for the possession of these “scissors.” Mr. Sieppe was obliged to intervene. He reflected gravely. It was a matter of tremendous moment. The whole party halted, awaiting his decision.
“Attend now,” he suddenly exclaimed. “It will not be soh soon. At der end of der day, ven we shall have home gecommen, den wull it pe adjudge, eh? A REward of merit to him who der bes' pehaves. It is an order. Vorwarts!”
“That was a Sacramento train,” said Marcus to Selina as they started off; “it was, for a fact.”
“I know a girl in Sacramento,” Trina told McTeague. “She's forewoman in a glove store, and she's got consumption.”
“I was in Sacramento once,” observed McTeague, “nearly eight years ago.”
“Is it a nice place—as nice as San Francisco?”
“It's hot. I practised there for a while.”
“I like San Francisco,” said Trina, looking across the bay to where the city piled itself upon its hills.
“So do I,” answered McTeague. “Do you like it better than living over here?”
“Oh, sure, I wish we lived in the city. If you want to go across for anything it takes up the whole day.”
“Yes, yes, the whole day—almost.”
“Do you know many people in the city? Do you know anybody named Oelbermann? That's my uncle. He has a wholesale toy store in the Mission. They say he's awful rich.”
“No, I don' know him.”
“His stepdaughter wants to be a nun. Just fancy! And Mr. Oelbermann won't have it. He says it would be just like burying his child. Yes, she wants to enter the convent of the Sacred Heart. Are you a Catholic, Doctor McTeague?”
“No. No, I—”
“Papa is a Catholic. He goes to Mass on the feast days once in a while. But mamma's Lutheran.”
“The Catholics are trying to get control of the schools,” observed McTeague, suddenly remembering one of Marcus's political tirades.
“That's what cousin Mark says. We are going to send the twins to the kindergarten next month.”
“What's the kindergarten?”
“Oh, they teach them to make things out of straw and toothpicks—kind of a play place to keep them off the street.”
“There's one up on Sacramento Street, not far from Polk Street. I saw the sign.”
“I know where. Why, Selina used to play the piano there.”
“Does she play the piano?”
“Oh, you ought to hear her. She plays fine. Selina's very accomplished. She paints, too.”
“I can play on the concertina.”
“Oh, can you? I wish you'd brought it along. Next time you will. I hope you'll come often on our picnics. You'll see what fun we'll have.”
“Fine day for a picnic, ain't it? There ain't a cloud.”
“That's so,” exclaimed Trina, looking up, “not a single cloud. Oh, yes; there is one, just over Telegraph Hill.”
“That's smoke.”
“No, it's a cloud. Smoke isn't white that way.”
“'Tis a cloud.”
“I knew I was right. I never say a thing unless I'm pretty sure.”
“It looks like a dog's head.”
“Don't it? Isn't Marcus fond of dogs?”
“He got a new dog last week—a setter.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.