"And, say, Mac," continued Trina, pouring the chocolate, "what do you think? Mamma wants me — wants us to send her fifty dollars. She says they're hard up."
"Well," said the dentist, after a moment, "well, I guess we can send it, can't we?"
"Oh, that's easy to say," complained Trina, her little chin in the air, her small pale lips pursed. "I wonder if mamma thinks we're millionaires?"
"Trina, you're getting to be regular stingy," muttered McTeague. "You're getting worse and worse every day."
"But fifty dollars is fifty dollars, Mac. Just think how long it takes you to earn fifty dollars. Fifty dollars! That's two months of our interest."
"Well," said McTeague, easily, his mouth full of mashed potato, "you got a lot saved up."
Upon every reference to that little hoard in the brass match-safe and chamois-skin bag at the bottom of her trunk, Trina bridled on the instant.
"Don't TALK that way, Mac. 'A lot of money.' What do you call a lot of money? I don't believe I've got fifty dollars saved."
"Hoh!" exclaimed McTeague. "Hoh! I guess you got nearer a hundred AN' fifty. That's what I guess YOU got."
"I've NOT, I've NOT," declared Trina, "and you know I've not. I wish mamma hadn't asked me for any money. Why can't she be a little more economical? I manage all right. No, no, I can't possibly afford to send her fifty."