As she let
herself out of the back gate into the alley, Alexander, Marcus's Irish
setter, woke suddenly with a gruff bark. The collie who lived on the
other side of the fence, in the back yard of the branch post-office,
answered with a snarl. Then in an instant the endless feud between
the two dogs was resumed. They dragged their respective kennels to the
fence, and through the cracks raged at each other in a frenzy of hate;
their teeth snapped and gleamed; the hackles on their backs rose and
stiffened. Their hideous clamor could have been heard for blocks around.
What a massacre should the two ever meet!
Meanwhile, Maria was knocking at Zerkow's miserable hovel.
"Who is it? Who is it?" cried the rag-picker from within, in his hoarse
voice, that was half whisper, starting nervously, and sweeping a handful
of silver into his drawer.
"It's me, Maria Macapa;" then in a lower voice, and as if speaking to
herself, "had a flying squirrel an' let him go."
"Ah, Maria," cried Zerkow, obsequiously opening the door. "Come in, come
in, my girl; you're always welcome, even as late as this. No junk, hey?
But you're welcome for all that. You'll have a drink, won't you?" He led
her into his back room and got down the whiskey bottle and the broken
red tumbler.
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