grew thick upon the
window panes and in the corners of the room. All the filth of the alley
invaded their quarters like a rising muddy tide.

Between the windows, however, the faded photograph of the couple in
their wedding finery looked down upon the wretchedness, Trina still
holding her set bouquet straight before her, McTeague standing at her
side, his left foot forward, in the attitude of a Secretary of State;
while near by hung the canary, the one thing the dentist clung to
obstinately, piping and chittering all day in its little gilt prison.

And the tooth, the gigantic golden molar of French gilt, enormous and
ungainly, sprawled its branching prongs in one corner of the room, by
the footboard of the bed. The McTeague's had come to use it as a sort
of substitute for a table. After breakfast and supper Trina piled the
plates and greasy dishes upon it to have them out of the way.

One afternoon the Other Dentist, McTeague's old-time rival, the wearer
of marvellous waistcoats, was surprised out of all countenance to
receive a visit from McTeague. The Other Dentist was in his operating
room at the time, at work upon a plaster-of-paris mould. To his call
of "'Come right in. Don't you see the sign, 'Enter without knocking'?"
McTeague came in. He noted at once how airy and cheerful was the room. A
little fire coughed and tittered on the hearth, a brindled greyhound
sat on his haunches watching it intently, a great mirror over the mantle
offered to view an array of actresses' pictures thrust between the glass
and the frame, and a big bunch of freshly-cut violets stood in a glass
bowl on the polished cherrywood table. The Other Dentist came forward
briskly, exclaiming cheerfully:

"Oh, Doctor--Mister McTeague, how do? how do?"

The fellow was actually wearing a velvet smoking jacket. A cigarette
was between his lips; his patent leather boots reflected the firelight.
McTeague wore a black surah neglige shirt without a cravat; huge buckled
brogans, hob-nailed, gross, encased his feet; the hems of his trousers
were spotted with mud; his coat was frayed at the sleeves and a button
was gone. In three days he had not shaved; his shock of heavy blond hair
escaped from beneath the visor of his woollen cap and hung low over his
forehead. He stood with awkward, shifting feet and uncertain eyes before
the dapper young fellow who reeked of the barber shop, and whom he had
once ordered from his rooms.

"What can I do for you thi