A cigarette
was between his lips; his patent leather boots reflected the firelight.
McTeague wore a black surah neglige shirt without a cravat; huge buckled
brogans, hob-nailed, gross, encased his feet; the hems of his trousers
were spotted with mud; his coat was frayed at the sleeves and a button
was gone. In three days he had not shaved; his shock of heavy blond hair
escaped from beneath the visor of his woollen cap and hung low over his
forehead. He stood with awkward, shifting feet and uncertain eyes before
the dapper young fellow who reeked of the barber shop, and whom he had
once ordered from his rooms.
"What can I do for you this morning, Mister McTeague? Something wrong
with the teeth, eh?"
"No, no." McTeague, floundering in the difficulties of his speech,
forgot the carefully rehearsed words with which he had intended to begin
this interview.
"I want to sell you my sign," he said, stupidly. "That big tooth of
French gilt--YOU know--that you made an offer for once."
"Oh, I don't want that now," said the other loftily. "I prefer a little
quiet signboard, nothing pretentious--just the name, and 'Dentist' after
it. These big signs are vulgar. No, I don't want it.
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