Maria shut her fist over the pellets. “The gold goes with the others,” she declared. “You'll gi' me a fair price for the lot, or I'll take um back.”
In the end a bargain was struck that satisfied Maria. Zerkow was not one who would let gold go out of his house. He counted out to her the price of all her junk, grudging each piece of money as if it had been the blood of his veins. The affair was concluded.
But Zerkow still had something to say. As Maria folded up the pillow-case and rose to go, the old Jew said:
“Well, see here a minute, we'll—you'll have a drink before you go, won't you? Just to show that it's all right between us.” Maria sat down again.
“Yes, I guess I'll have a drink,” she answered.
Zerkow took down a whiskey bottle and a red glass tumbler with a broken base from a cupboard on the wall. The two drank together, Zerkow from the bottle, Maria from the broken tumbler. They wiped their lips slowly, drawing breath again. There was a moment's silence.
“Say,” said Zerkow at last, “how about those gold dishes you told me about the last time you were here?”
“What gold dishes?” inquired Maria, puzzled.
“Ah, you know,” returned the other. “The plate your father owned in Central America a long time ago. Don't you know, it rang like so many bells? Red gold, you know, like oranges?”
“Ah,” said Maria, putting her chin in the air as if she knew a long story about that if she had a mind to tell it. “Ah, yes, that gold service.”