As soon as they had
found themselves in the street, Marcus had relapsed at once to a sullen
silence, which McTeague was too abstracted to notice.
They entered the tiny office of the hospital with its red carpet, its
gas stove, and its colored prints of famous dogs hanging against the
walls. In one corner stood the iron bed which they were to occupy.
"You go on an' get to bed, Mac," observed Marcus. "I'll take a look at
the dogs before I turn in."
He went outside and passed along into the yard, that was bounded on
three sides by pens where the dogs were kept. A bull terrier dying of
gastritis recognized him and began to whimper feebly.
Marcus paid no attention to the dogs. For the first time that evening he
was alone and could give vent to his thoughts. He took a couple of turns
up and down the yard, then suddenly in a low voice exclaimed:
"You fool, you fool, Marcus Schouler! If you'd kept Trina you'd have
had that money. You might have had it yourself. You've thrown away your
chance in life--to give up the girl, yes--but this," he stamped his foot
with rage--"to throw five thousand dollars out of the window--to stuff
it into the pockets of someone else, when it might have been yours, when
you might have had Trina AND the money--and all for what? Because we
were pals.
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