Marcus had come away fairly sick with envy; his rancor against the dentist--and against himself, for that matter--knew no bounds.

"And you might 'a' had it all yourself, Marcus Schouler," he muttered to himself on the stairs.
"You mushhead, you damn fool!" Meanwhile, Marcus was becoming involved in the politics of his ward.

As secretary of the Polk Street Improvement Club--which soon developed into quite an affair and began to assume the proportions of a Republican political machine--he found he could make a little, a very little more than enough to live on.

At once he had given up his position as Old Grannis's assistant in the dog hospital.

Marcus felt that he needed a wider sphere.