“Mac,” cried Trina, in alarm, “what are you thinking of? You talk as though we were millionaires. You must go down this minute. You're losing money every second you sit there.” She goaded the huge fellow to his feet again, thrust his hat into his hands, and pushed him out of the door, he obeying the while, docile and obedient as a big cart horse. He was on the stairs when she came running after him.
“Mac, they paid you off, didn't they, when they discharged you?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must have some money. Give it to me.”
The dentist heaved a shoulder uneasily.
“No, I don' want to.”
“I've got to have that money. There's no more oil for the stove, and I must buy some more meal tickets to-night.”
“Always after me about money,” muttered the dentist; but he emptied his pockets for her, nevertheless.
“I—you've taken it all,” he grumbled. “Better leave me something for car fare. It's going to rain.”
“Pshaw! You can walk just as well as not. A big fellow like you 'fraid of a little walk; and it ain't going to rain.”