"I don' know, I don' know," responded the dentist, looking stupidly at
the dog.

"You know where they live," continued Marcus Schouler. "Over at B Street
station, across the bay. I'll take you over there whenever you want to
go. I tell you what, we'll go over there Washington's Birthday. That's
this next Wednesday; sure, they'll be glad to see you." It was good of
Marcus. All at once McTeague rose to an appreciation of what his friend
was doing for him. He stammered:

"Say, Mark--you're--you're all right, anyhow."

"Why, pshaw!" said Marcus. "That's all right, old man. I'd like to see
you two fixed, that's all. We'll go over Wednesday, sure."

They turned back to the house. Alexander left off eating and watched
them go away, first with one eye, then with the other. But he was too
self-respecting to whimper. However, by the time the two friends had
reached the second landing on the back stairs a terrible commotion was
under way in the little yard. They rushed to an open window at the end
of the hall and looked down.

A thin board fence separated the flat's back yard from that used by
the branch post-office. In the latter place lived a collie dog. He and
Alexander had smelt each other out, blowing through the cracks of the
fence at each other. Suddenly the quarrel had exploded on either side of
the fence. The dogs raged at each other, snarling and barking, frantic
with hate. Their teeth gleamed. They tore at the fence with their front
paws. They filled the whole night with their clamor.