thrown knife, the attempt on
his life, was beyond his solution; but the breaking of his pipe he
understood clearly enough.

"I'll show him," he exclaimed.

As though they had been little children, McTeague set Frenna and the
harness-maker aside, and strode out at the door like a raging elephant.
Heise stood rubbing his shoulder.

"Might as well try to stop a locomotive," he muttered. "The man's made
of iron."

Meanwhile, McTeague went storming up the street toward the flat, wagging
his head and grumbling to himself. Ah, Marcus would break his pipe,
would he? Ah, he was a zinc-plugger, was he? He'd show Marcus Schouler.
No one should make small of him. He tramped up the stairs to Marcus's
room. The door was locked. The dentist put one enormous hand on the knob
and pushed the door in, snapping the wood-work, tearing off the lock.
Nobody--the room was dark and empty. Never mind, Marcus would have to
come home some time that night. McTeague would go down and wait for him
in his "Parlors." He was bound to hear him as he came up the stairs.

As McTeague reached his room he stumbled over, in the darkness, a big
packing-box that stood in the hallway just outside his door. Puzzled, he
stepped over it, and lighting the gas in his room, dragged it inside and
examined it.

It was addressed to him. What could it mean? He was expecting nothing.
Never since he had first furnished his room had packing-cases been left
for him in this fashion. No mistake was possible. There were his name
and address unmistakably. "Dr. McTeague, dentist--Polk Street, San
Francisco, Cal.," and the red Wells Fargo tag.

Seized with the joyful curiosity of an overgrown boy, he pried off the
boards with the corner of his fireshovel. The case was stuffed full
of excelsior. On the top lay an envelope addressed to him in Trina's
handwriting. He opened it and read, "For my dear Mac's birthday, from
Trina;" and below, in a kind of post-script, "The man will be round
to-morrow to put it in place." McTeague tore away the excelsior.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation.

It was the Tooth--the famous golden molar with its huge prongs--his
sign, his ambition, the one unrealized dream of his life; and it was
French gilt, too, not the cheap German gilt that was no good. Ah, what
a dear little woman was this Trina, to keep so quiet, to remember his
birthday!

"Ain't she--ain't she just a--just a JEWEL," exclaimed McTeague under
his breath, "a JEWEL--yes, just a