Essential Novelists - Frank Norris. Frank Norris
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told this story again, and yet again. All through the afternoon he could be overheard relating the wonder to any one who would listen, exaggerating the effect of his blow, inventing terrific details. Why, the heifer had just frothed at the mouth, and his eyes had rolled up—ah, sure, his eyes rolled up just like that—and the butcher had said his skull was all mashed in—just all mashed in, sure, that's the word—just as if from a sledge-hammer.
Notwithstanding his reconciliation with the dentist on the boat, Marcus's gorge rose within him at McTeague's boasting swagger. When McTeague had slapped him on the back, Marcus had retired to some little distance while he recovered his breath, and glared at the dentist fiercely as he strode up and down, glorying in the admiring glances of the women.
“Ah, one-horse dentist,” he muttered between his teeth. “Ah, zinc-plugger, cow-killer, I'd like to show you once, you overgrown mucker, you—you—COW-KILLER!”
When he rejoined the group, he found them preparing for a wrestling bout.
“I tell you what,” said Heise, “we'll have a tournament. Marcus and I will rastle, and Doc and Ryer, and then the winners will rastle each other.”
The women clapped their hands excitedly. This would be exciting. Trina cried:
“Better let me hold your money, Mac, and your keys, so as you won't lose them out of your pockets.” The men gave their valuables into the keeping of their wives and promptly set to work.
The dentist thrust Ryer down without even changing his grip; Marcus and the harness-maker struggled together for a few moments till Heise all at once slipped on a bit of turf and fell backwards. As they toppled over together, Marcus writhed himself from under his opponent, and, as they reached the ground, forced down first one shoulder and then the other.
“All right, all right,” panted the harness-maker, goodnaturedly, “I'm down. It's up to you and Doc now,” he added, as he got to his feet.
The match between McTeague and Marcus promised to be interesting. The dentist, of course, had an enormous advantage in point of strength, but Marcus prided himself on his wrestling, and knew something about strangle-holds and half-Nelsons. The men drew back to allow them a free space as they faced each other, while Trina and the other women rose to their feet in their excitement.
“I bet Mac will throw him, all the same,” said Trina.
“All ready!” cried Ryer.
The dentist and Marcus stepped forward, eyeing each other cautiously. They circled around the impromptu ring. Marcus watching eagerly for an opening. He ground his teeth, telling himself he would throw McTeague if it killed him. Ah, he'd show him now. Suddenly the two men caught at each other; Marcus went to his knees. The dentist threw his vast bulk on his adversary's shoulders and, thrusting a huge palm against his face, pushed him backwards and downwards. It was out of the question to resist that enormous strength. Marcus wrenched himself over and fell face downward on the ground.
McTeague rose on the instant with a great laugh of exultation.
“You're down!” he exclaimed.
Marcus leaped to his feet.
“Down nothing,” he vociferated, with clenched fists. “Down nothing, by damn! You got to throw me so's my shoulders touch.”
McTeague was stalking about, swelling with pride.
“Hoh, you're down. I threw you. Didn't I throw him, Trina? Hoh, you can't rastle ME.”
Marcus capered with rage.
“You didn't! you didn't! you didn't! and you can't! You got to give me another try.”
The other men came crowding up. Everybody was talking at once.
“He's right.”
“You didn't throw him.”
“Both his shoulders at the same time.”
Trina clapped and waved her hand at McTeague from where she stood on the little slope of lawn above the wrestlers. Marcus broke through the group, shaking all over with excitement and rage.
“I tell you that ain't the WAY to rastle. You've got to throw a man so's his shoulders touch. You got to give me another bout.”
“That's straight,” put in Heise, “both his shoulders down at the same time. Try it again. You and Schouler have another try.”
McTeague was bewildered by so much simultaneous talk. He could not make out what it was all about. Could he have offended Marcus again?
“What? What? Huh? What is it?” he exclaimed in perplexity, looking from one to the other.
“Come on, you must rastle me again,” shouted Marcus.
“Sure, sure,” cried the dentist. “I'll rastle you again. I'll rastle everybody,” he cried, suddenly struck with an idea. Trina looked on in some apprehension.
“Mark gets so mad,” she said, half aloud.
“Yes,” admitted Selina. “Mister Schouler's got an awful quick temper, but he ain't afraid of anything.”
“All ready!” shouted Ryer.
This time Marcus was more careful. Twice, as McTeague rushed at him, he slipped cleverly away. But as the dentist came in a third time, with his head bowed, Marcus, raising himself to his full height, caught him with both arms around the neck. The dentist gripped at him and rent away the sleeve of his shirt. There was a great laugh.
“Keep your shirt on,” cried Mrs. Ryer.
The two men were grappling at each other wildly. The party could hear them panting and grunting as they labored and struggled. Their boots tore up great clods of turf. Suddenly they came to the ground with a tremendous shock. But even as they were in the act of falling, Marcus, like a very eel, writhed in the dentist's clasp and fell upon his side. McTeague crashed down upon him like the collapse of a felled ox.
“Now, you gotta turn him on his back,” shouted Heise to the dentist. “He ain't down if you don't.”
With his huge salient chin digging into Marcus's shoulder, the dentist heaved and tugged. His face was flaming, his huge shock of yellow hair fell over his forehead, matted with sweat. Marcus began to yield despite his frantic efforts. One shoulder was down, now the other began to go; gradually, gradually it was forced over. The little audience held its breath in the suspense of the moment. Selina broke the silence, calling out shrilly:
“Ain't Doctor McTeague just that strong!”
Marcus heard it, and his fury came instantly to a head. Rage at his defeat at the hands of the dentist and before Selina's eyes, the hate he still bore his old-time “pal” and the impotent wrath of his own powerlessness were suddenly unleashed.
“God damn you! get off of me,” he cried under his breath, spitting the words as a snake spits its venom. The little audience uttered a cry. With the oath Marcus had twisted his head and had bitten through the lobe of the dentist's ear. There was a sudden flash of bright-red blood.
Then followed a terrible scene. The brute that in McTeague lay so close to the surface leaped instantly to life, monstrous, not to be resisted. He sprang to his feet with a shrill and meaningless clamor, totally unlike the ordinary bass of his speaking tones. It was the hideous yelling of a hurt beast, the squealing of a wounded elephant. He framed no words; in the rush of high-pitched sound that issued from his wide-open mouth there was nothing articulate. It was something no longer human; it was rather an echo from the jungle.
Sluggish enough and slow to anger on ordinary occasions, McTeague when finally aroused became another man. His rage was a kind of obsession, an evil mania, the drunkenness of passion, the exalted and perverted fury of the Berserker, blind and deaf, a thing insensate.
As he rose he caught Marcus's wrist in both his hands. He did not strike, he