McTeague | Page 7

steps and

rang the doorbell boldly, to show his independence, McTeague
remained below on the sidewalk, gazing stupidly at the curtained
windows, the marble steps, and the bronze griffins, troubled and a little
confused by all this massive luxury.
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.
Quite an affair had arisen from this circumstance. Miss Baker and Old
Grannis were both over sixty, and yet it was current talk amongst the
lodgers of the flat that the two were in love with each other . Singularly
enough, they were not even acquaintances; never a word had passed
between them. At intervals they met on the stairway; he on his way to
his little dog hospital, she returning from a bit of marketing in the street.
At such times they passed each other with averted eyes, pretending a
certain pre- occupation, suddenly seized with a great embarrassment,
the timidity of a second childhood. He went on about his business,
disturbed and thoughtful. She hurried up to her tiny room, her curious
little false curls shaking with her agitation, the faintest suggestion of a
flush coming and going in her withered cheeks. The emotion of one of
these chance meetings remained with them during all the rest of the
day.
Was it the first romance in the lives of each? Did Old Grannis ever
remember a certain face amongst those that he had known when he was

young Grannis--the face of some pale- haired girl, such as one sees in
the old cathedral towns of England? Did Miss Baker still treasure up in
a seldom opened drawer or box some faded daguerreotype, some
strange old-fashioned likeness, with its curling hair and high stock? It
was impossible to say.
Maria Macapa, the Mexican woman who took care of the lodgers'
rooms, had been the first to call the flat's attention to the affair,
spreading the news of it from room to room, from floor to floor. Of late
she had made a great discovery; all the women folk of the flat were yet
vibrant with it. Old Grannis came home from his work at four o'clock,
and between that time and six Miss Baker would sit in her room, her
hands idle in her lap, doing nothing, listening, waiting. Old Grannis did
the same, drawing his