behind the wire netting, they returned to Polk Street and had a glass of
beer in the back room of Joe Frenna's corner grocery.

Ever since they had left the huge mansion on the avenue, Marcus had been
attacking the capitalists, a class which he pretended to execrate. It
was a pose which he often assumed, certain of impressing the dentist.
Marcus had picked up a few half-truths of political economy--it was
impossible to say where--and as soon as the two had settled themselves
to their beer in Frenna's back room he took up the theme of the labor
question. He discussed it at the top of his voice, vociferating, shaking
his fists, exciting himself with his own noise. He was continually
making use of the stock phrases of the professional politician--phrases
he had caught at some of the ward "rallies" and "ratification meetings."
These rolled off his tongue with incredible emphasis, appearing at every
turn of his conversation--"Outraged constituencies," "cause of labor,"
"wage earners," "opinions biased by personal interests," "eyes blinded
by party prejudice." McTeague listened to him, awestruck.

"There's where the evil lies," Marcus would cry. "The masses must learn
self-control; it stands to reason. Look at the figures, look at the
figures. Decrease the number of wage earners and you increase wages,
don't you? don't you?"

Absolutely stupid, and understanding never a word, McTeague would
answer:

"Yes, yes, that's it--self-control--that's the word."

"It's the capitalists that's ruining the cause of labor," shouted
Marcus, banging the table with his fist till the beer glasses danced;