In recounting a certain dispute with an awkward bicyclist, in which it appeared he had become involved, Marcus quivered with rage. “’Say that again,’ says I to um.  ‘Just say that once more, and’”—­here a rolling explosion of oaths—­“’you’ll go back to the city in the Morgue wagon.  Ain’t I got a right to cross a street even, I’d like to know, without being run down—­what?’ I say it’s outrageous.  I’d a knifed him in another minute.  It was an outrage.  I say it was an outrage.”

“Sure it was,” McTeague hastened to reply.  “Sure, sure.”

“Oh, and we had an accident,” shouted the other, suddenly off on another tack.  “It was awful.  Trina was in the swing there—­that’s my cousin Trina, you know who I mean—­and she fell out.  By damn!  I thought she’d killed herself; struck her face on a rock and knocked out a front tooth.  It’s a wonder she didn’t kill herself.  It is a wonder; it is, for a fact.  Ain’t it, now?  Huh?  Ain’t it?  Y’ought t’have seen.”

McTeague had a vague idea that Marcus Schouler was stuck on his cousin Trina.  They “kept company” a good deal; Marcus took dinner with the Sieppes every Saturday evening at their home at B Street station, across the bay, and Sunday afternoons he and the family usually made little excursions into the suburbs.  McTeague began to wonder dimly how it was that on this occasion Marcus had not gone home with his cousin.  As sometimes happens, Marcus furnished the explanation upon the instant.

“I promised a duck up here on the avenue I’d call for his dog at four this afternoon.”

Marcus was Old Grannis’s assistant in a little dog hospital that the latter had opened in a sort of alley just off Polk Street, some four blocks above Old Grannis lived in one of the back rooms of McTeague’s flat.  He was an Englishman and an expert dog surgeon, but Marcus Schouler was a bungler in the profession.  His father had been a veterinary surgeon who had kept a livery stable near by, on California Street, and Marcus’s knowledge of the diseases of domestic animals had been picked up in a haphazard way, much after the manner of McTeague’s education.  Somehow he managed to impress Old Grannis, a gentle, simple-minded old man, with a sense of his fitness, bewildering him with a torrent of empty phrases that he delivered with fierce gestures and with a manner of the greatest conviction.

“You’d better come along with me, Mac,” observed Marcus.  “We’ll get the duck’s dog, and then we’ll take a little walk, huh?  You got nothun to do.  Come along.”

McTeague went out with him, and the two friends proceeded up to the avenue to the house where the dog was to be found.  It was a huge mansion-like place, set in an enormous garden that occupied a whole third of the block; and while Marcus tramped up the front 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.