"There's four seats on the right-hand side, then, and you're right up
against the drums."
"But I don't want to be near the drums," protested McTeague, beginning
to perspire.
"Do you know what you want at all?" said the ticket seller with
calmness, thrusting his head at McTeague. The dentist knew that he had
hurt this young man's feelings.
"I want--I want," he stammered. The seller slammed down a plan of the
house in front of him and began to explain excitedly. It was the one
thing lacking to complete McTeague's confusion.
"There are your seats," finished the seller, shoving the tickets into
McTeague's hands. "They are the fourth row from the front, and away from
the drums. Now are you satisfied?"
"Are they on the right-hand side? I want on the right--no, I want on the
left. I want--I don' know, I don' know."
The seller roared. McTeague moved slowly away, gazing stupidly at the
blue slips of pasteboard. Two girls took his place at the wicket. In
another moment McTeague came back, peering over the girls' shoulders and
calling to the seller:
"Are these for Monday night?"
The other disdained reply. McTeague retreated again timidly, thrusting
the tickets into his immense wallet.
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