The bay
window of his "Dental Parlors" was for him a point of vantage from which
he watched the world go past.
On Sundays, however, all was changed. As he stood in the bay window,
after finishing his beer, wiping his lips, and looking out into the
street, McTeague was conscious of the difference. Nearly all the stores
were closed. No wagons passed. A few people hurried up and down the
sidewalks, dressed in cheap Sunday finery. A cable car went by; on the
outside seats were a party of returning picnickers. The mother, the
father, a young man, and a young girl, and three children. The two older
people held empty lunch baskets in their laps, while the bands of the
children's hats were stuck full of oak leaves. The girl carried a huge
bunch of wilting poppies and wild flowers.
As the car approached McTeague's window the young man got up and swung
himself off the platform, waving goodby to the party. Suddenly McTeague
recognized him.
"There's Marcus Schouler," he muttered behind his mustache.
Marcus Schouler was the dentist's one intimate friend. The acquaintance
had begun at the car conductors' coffee-joint, where the two occupied
the same table and met at every meal.
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