"Had a flying squirrel an' let him go," she muttered, absently.

Zerkow was puzzled; he looked at her sharply for a moment, then dismissed the matter with a movement of his head.
"Well, what you got for me ?" he said.

He left his supper to grow cold, absorbed at once in the affair.
Then a long wrangle began.

Every bit of junk in Maria's pillow-case was discussed and weighed and disputed.

They clamored into each other's faces over Old Grannis's cracked pitcher, over Miss Baker's silk gaiters, over Marcus Schouler's whiskey flasks, reaching the climax of disagreement when it came to McTeague's instruments.
"Ah, no, no!" shouted Maria.