«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.
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.»