“Why,” he would cry, “I've had 'em ever since—ever since I BEGAN; long before I knew you, Trina. That steel engraving I bought in Sacramento one day when it was raining. I saw it in the window of a second-hand store, and a fellow GAVE me that stone pug dog. He was a druggist. It was in Sacramento too. We traded. I gave him a shaving-mug and a razor, and he gave me the pug dog.”
There were, however, two of his belongings that even Trina could not induce him to part with.
“And your concertina, Mac,” she prompted, as they were making out the list for the second-hand dealer. “The concertina, and—oh, yes, the canary and the bird cage.”
“No.”
“Mac, you MUST be reasonable. The concertina would bring quite a sum, and the bird cage is as good as new. I'll sell the canary to the bird-store man on Kearney Street.”
“No.”
“If you're going to make objections to every single thing, we might as well quit. Come, now, Mac, the concertina and the bird cage. We'll put them in Lot D.”
“No.”
“You'll have to come to it sooner or later. I'M giving up everything. I'm going to put them down, see.”
“No.”