eague met Marcus
Schouler at his table in the car conductors' coffee-joint, next to the
harness shop.

"What you got to do this afternoon, Mac?" inquired the other, as they
ate their suet pudding.

"Nothing, nothing," replied McTeague, shaking his head. His mouth
was full of pudding. It made him warm to eat, and little beads of
perspiration stood across the bridge of his nose. He looked forward
to an afternoon passed in his operating chair as usual. On leaving
his "Parlors" he had put ten cents into his pitcher and had left it at
Frenna's to be filled.

"What do you say we take a walk, huh?" said Marcus. "Ah, that's the
thing--a walk, a long walk, by damn! It'll be outa sight. I got to take
three or four of the dogs out for exercise, anyhow. Old Grannis thinks
they need ut. We'll walk out to the Presidio."

Of late it had become the custom of the two friends to take long walks
from time to time. On holidays and on those Sunday afternoons when
Marcus was not absent with the Sieppes they went out together, sometimes
to the park, sometimes to the Presidio, sometimes even across the bay.
They took a great pleasure in each other's company, but silently and
with reservation, having the masculine horror of any demonstration of
friendship.

They walked for upwards of five hours that afternoon, out the length
of California Street, and across the Presidio Reservation to the Golden
Gate. Then they turned, and, following the line of the shore, brought up
at the Cliff House. Here they halted for beer, Marcus swearing that his
mouth was as dry as a hay-bin. Before starting on their walk they had
gone around to the little dog hospital, and Marcus had let out four of
the convalescents, crazed with joy at the release.

"Look at that dog," he cried to McTeague, showing him a finely-bred
Irish setter. "That's the dog that belonged to the duck on the avenue,
the dog we called for that day. I've bought 'um. The duck thought he
had the distemper, and just threw 'um away. Nothun wrong with 'um but a
little catarrh. Ain't he a bird? Say, ain't he a bird? Look at his flag;
it's perfect; and see how he carries his tail on a line with his back.
See how stiff and white his whiskers are. Oh, by damn! you can't fool me
on a dog. That dog's a winner."

At the Cliff House the two sat down to their beer in a quiet corner of
the billiard-room. There were but two players. Somewhere in another part
of the building a mammoth music-box was jangling