McTeague shook his head helplessly. It was dark
by now and cold. The little back yard was grimy
and full of odors. McTeague was tired with their
long walk. All his uneasiness about his affair
with Trina had returned. No, surely she was not
for him. Marcus or some other man would win her
in the end. What could she ever see to desire
in him—in him, a clumsy giant, with hands
like wooden mallets? She had told him once that
she would not marry him. Was that not final?
“I don’ know what to do, Mark,”
he said.
“Well, you must make up to her now,” answered
Marcus. “Go and call on her.”
McTeague started. He had not thought of calling
on her. The idea frightened him a little.
“Of course,” persisted Marcus, “that’s
the proper caper. What did you expect? Did
you think you was never going to see her again?”
“I don’ know, I don’ know,”
responded the dentist, looking stupidly at the dog.
“You know where they live,” continued
Marcus Schouler. “Over at B Street station,
across the bay. I’ll take you over there
whenever you want to go. I tell you what, we’ll
go over there Washington’s Birthday. That’s
this next Wednesday; sure, they’ll be glad to
see you.” It was good of Marcus. All
at once McTeague rose to an appreciation of what his
friend was doing for him. He stammered:
“Say, Mark—you’re—you’re
all right, anyhow.”
“Why, pshaw!” said Marcus. “That’s
all right, old man. I’d like to see you
two fixed, that’s all. We’ll go over
Wednesday, sure.”
They turned back to the house. Alexander left
off eating and watched them go away, first with one
eye, then with the other. But he was too self-respecting
to whimper. However, by the time the two friends
had reached the second landing on the back stairs
a terrible commotion was under way in the little yard.
They rushed to an open window at the end of the hall
and looked down.
A thin board fence separated the flat’s back
yard from that used by the branch post-office.
In the latter place lived a collie dog. He and
Alexander had smelt each other out, blowing through
the cracks of the fence at each other. Suddenly
the quarrel had exploded on either side of the fence.
The dogs raged at each other, snarling and barking,
frantic with hate. Their teeth gleamed.
They tore at the fence with their front paws.
They filled the whole night with their clamor.
“By damn!” cried Marcus, “they don’t
love each other. Just listen; wouldn’t
that make a fight if the two got together? Have
to try it some day.”
Wednesday morning, Washington’s Birthday, McTeague
rose very early and shaved himself. Besides the
six mournful concertina airs, the dentist knew one
song. Whenever he shaved, he sung this song; never
at any other time. His voice was a bellowing
roar, enough to make the window sashes rattle.
Just now he woke up all the lodgers in his hall with
it. It was a lamentable wail:
