“Say,” he inquired, addressing the clerk in charge, “say, where'd this come from?”
“Why, let's see. We got that from a second-hand store up on Polk Street, I guess. It's a fairly good machine; a little tinkering with the stops and a bit of shellac, and we'll make it about's good as new. Good tone. See.” And the clerk drew a long, sonorous wail from the depths of McTeague's old concertina.
“Well, it's mine,” growled the dentist.
The other laughed. “It's yours for eleven dollars.”
“It's mine,” persisted McTeague. “I want it.”
“Go 'long with you, Mac. What do you mean?”
“I mean that it's mine, that's what I mean. You got no right to it. It was STOLEN from me, that's what I mean,” he added, a sullen anger flaming up in his little eyes.
The clerk raised a shoulder and put the concertina on an upper shelf.
“You talk to the boss about that; t'ain't none of my affair. If you want to buy it, it's eleven dollars.”
The dentist had been paid off the day before and had four dollars in his wallet at the moment. He gave the money to the clerk.