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.
"Here, there's part of the money.

You--you put that concertina aside for me, an' I'll give you the rest in a week or so--I'll give it to you tomorrow," he exclaimed, struck with a sudden idea.
McTeague had sadly missed his concertina.

Sunday afternoons when there was no work to be done, he was accustomed to lie flat on his back on his springless bed in the little room in the rear of the music store, his coat and shoes off, reading the paper, drinking steam beer from a pitcher, and smoking his pipe.

But he could no longer play his six lugubrious airs upon his concertina, and it was a deprivation.