He had
had a hard day of it; in fact, the last week, the last month, the last
three or four months, had been hard. He deserved a little consolation.
Nor could Trina object to this. It wasn't costing a cent. He drank again
with Heise.
"Get up here to the stove and warm yourself," urged Heise, drawing up
a couple of chairs and cocking his feet upon the guard. The two fell to
talking while McTeague's draggled coat and trousers smoked.
"What a dirty turn that was that Marcus Schouler did you!" said Heise,
wagging his head. "You ought to have fought that, Doc, sure. You'd been
practising too long." They discussed this question some ten or fifteen
minutes and then Heise rose.
"Well, this ain't earning any money. I got to get back to the shop."
McTeague got up as well, and the pair started for the door. Just as they
were going out Ryer met them.
"Hello, hello," he cried. "Lord, what a wet day! You two are going the
wrong way. You're going to have a drink with me. Three whiskey punches,
Joe."
"No, no," answered McTeague, shaking his head. "I'm going back home.
I've had two glasses of whiskey already."
"Sha!" cried Heise, catching his arm. "A strapping big chap like you
ain't afraid of a little whiskey.
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