After they had taken the dog to the hospital and had
left him to whimper behind the wire netting, they
returned to Polk Street and had a glass of beer in
the back room of Joe Frenna’s corner grocery.
Ever since they had left the huge mansion on the avenue,
Marcus had been attacking the capitalists, a class
which he pretended to execrate. It was a pose
which he often assumed, certain of impressing the dentist.
Marcus had picked up a few half-truths of political
economy—it was impossible to say where—and
as soon as the two had settled themselves to their
beer in Frenna’s back room he took up the theme
of the labor question. He discussed it at the
top of his voice, vociferating, shaking his fists,
exciting himself with his own noise. He was continually
making use of the stock phrases of the professional
politician—phrases he had caught at some
of the ward “rallies” and “ratification
meetings.” These rolled off his tongue
with incredible emphasis, appearing at every turn
of his conversation—“Outraged constituencies,”
“cause of labor,” “wage earners,”
“opinions biased by personal interests,”
“eyes blinded by party prejudice.”
McTeague listened to him, awestruck.
“There’s where the evil lies,” Marcus
would cry. “The masses must learn self-control;
it stands to reason. Look at the figures, look
at the figures. Decrease the number of wage earners
and you increase wages, don’t you? don’t
you?”
Absolutely stupid, and understanding never a word,
McTeague would answer:
“Yes, yes, that’s it—self-control—that’s
the word.”
“It’s the capitalists that’s ruining
the cause of labor,” shouted Marcus, banging
the table with his fist till the beer glasses danced;
“white-livered drones, traitors, with their livers
white as snow, eatun the bread of widows and orphuns;
there’s where the evil lies.”
Stupefied with his clamor, McTeague answered, wagging
his head:
“Yes, that’s it; I think it’s their
livers.”
Suddenly Marcus fell calm again, forgetting his pose
all in an instant.
“Say, Mac, I told my cousin Trina to come round
and see you about that tooth of her’s.
She’ll be in to-morrow, I guess.”
CHAPTER 2
After his breakfast the following Monday morning,
McTeague looked over the appointments he had written
down in the book-slate that hung against the screen.
His writing was immense, very clumsy, and very round,
with huge, full-bellied l’s and h’s.
He saw that he had made an appointment at one o’clock
for Miss Baker, the retired dressmaker, a little old
maid who had a tiny room a few doors down the hall.
It adjoined that of Old Grannis.
