At every moment he looked sharply over his shoulder.

He even went to bed with his clothes and cap on, and at every hour during the night would get up and prowl about the bunk house, one ear turned down the wind, his eyes gimleting the darkness.

From time to time he would murmur: "There's something.

What is it?
I wonder what it is." What strange sixth sense stirred in McTeague at this time?
What animal cunning, what brute instinct clamored for recognition and obedience?
What lower faculty was it that roused his suspicion, that drove him out into the night a score of times between dark and dawn, his head in the air, his eyes and ears keenly alert?
One night as he stood on the steps of the bunk house, peering into the shadows of the camp, he uttered an exclamation as of a man suddenly enlightened.

He turned back into the house, drew from under his bed the blanket roll in which he kept his money hid, and took the canary down from the wall.