Every one of his falls was accentuated by a
bang upon the bass drum. The whole humor of the "act" seemed to consist
in the tripping up of the intoxicated lodger.
This horse-play delighted McTeague beyond measure. He roared and shouted
every time the lodger went down, slapping his knee, wagging his head.
Owgooste crowed shrilly, clapping his hands and continually
asking, "What did he say, ma? What did he say?" Mrs. Sieppe laughed
immoderately, her huge fat body shaking like a mountain of jelly. She
exclaimed from time to time, "Ach, Gott, dot fool!" Even Trina was
moved, laughing demurely, her lips closed, putting one hand with its new
glove to her mouth.
The performance went on. Now it was the "musical marvels," two men
extravagantly made up as negro minstrels, with immense shoes and
plaid vests. They seemed to be able to wrestle a tune out of almost
anything--glass bottles, cigar-box fiddles, strings of sleigh-bells,
even graduated brass tubes, which they rubbed with resined fingers.
McTeague was stupefied with admiration.
"That's what you call musicians," he announced gravely. "'Home, Sweet
Home,' played upon a trombone. Think of that! Art could go no farther.
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