"Huh!" exclaimed Marcus, with a short laugh, "guess you're in love."

McTeague gasped, and shuffled his enormous feet under the table.

"Well, somethun's bitun you, anyhow," pursued Marcus. "Maybe I can
help you. We're pals, you know. Better tell me what's up; guess we can
straighten ut out. Ah, go on; spit ut out."

The situation was abominable. McTeague could not rise to it. Marcus was
his best friend, his only friend. They were "pals" and McTeague was very
fond of him. Yet they were both in love, presumably, with the same girl,
and now Marcus would try and force the secret out of him; would rush
blindly at the rock upon which the two must split, stirred by the very
best of motives, wishing only to be of service. Besides this, there was
nobody to whom McTeague would have better preferred to tell his troubles
than to Marcus, and yet about this trouble, the greatest trouble of his
life, he must keep silent; must refrain from speaking of it to Marcus
above everybody.

McTeague began dimly to feel that life was too much for him. How had it
all come about? A month ago he was perfectly content; he was calm and
peaceful, taking his little pleasures as he found them. His life had
shaped itself; was, no doubt, to continue always along these same lines.
A woman had entered his small world and instantly there was discord. The
disturbing element had appeared. Wherever the woman had put her foot a
score of distressing complications had sprung up, like the sudden growth
of strange and puzzling flowers.

"Say, Mac, go on; let's have ut straight," urged Marcus, leaning toward
him. "Has any duck been doing you dirt?" he cried, his face crimson on