At length Marcus noticed it. As he set down his glass
with a bang he suddenly exclaimed:
"What's the matter with you these days, Mac? You got a bean about
somethun, hey? Spit ut out."
"No, no," replied McTeague, looking about on the floor, rolling his
eyes; "nothing, no, no."
"Ah, rats!" returned the other. McTeague kept silence. The two billiard
players departed. The huge music-box struck into a fresh tune.
"Huh!" exclaimed Marcus, with a short laugh, "guess you're in love."
McTeague gasped, and shuffled his enormous feet under the table.
"Well, somethun's bitun you, anyhow," pursued Marcus. "Maybe I can
help you. We're pals, you know. Better tell me what's up; guess we can
straighten ut out. Ah, go on; spit ut out."
The situation was abominable. McTeague could not rise to it. Marcus was
his best friend, his only friend. They were "pals" and McTeague was very
fond of him. Yet they were both in love, presumably, with the same girl,
and now Marcus would try and force the secret out of him; would rush
blindly at the rock upon which the two must split, stirred by the very
best of motives, wishing only to be of service. Besides this, there was
nobody to whom McTeague would have better preferred to tell his troubles
than to Marcus, and yet about this trouble, the greatest trouble of his
life, he must keep silent; must refrain from speaking of it to Marcus
above everybody.
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