Then it was that Owgooste touched the limit of his misery,
his unhappiness, his horrible discomfort; his utter wretchedness was
complete. He filled the air with his doleful outcries. The more he was
smacked and shaken, the louder he wept.
"What--what is the matter?" inquired McTeague.
Trina's face was scarlet. "Nothing, nothing," she exclaimed hastily,
looking away. "Come, we must be going. It's about over." The end of the
show and the breaking up of the audience tided over the embarrassment of
the moment.
The party filed out at the tail end of the audience. Already the lights
were being extinguished and the ushers spreading druggeting over the
upholstered seats.
McTeague and the Sieppes took an uptown car that would bring them near
Polk Street. The car was crowded; McTeague and Owgooste were obliged to
stand. The little boy fretted to be taken in his mother's lap, but Mrs.
Sieppe emphatically refused.
On their way home they discussed the performance.
"I--I like best der yodlers."
"Ah, the soloist was the best--the lady who sang those sad songs."
"Wasn't--wasn't that magic lantern wonderful, where the figures moved?
Wonderful--ah, wonderful! And wasn't that first act funny, where the
fellow fell down all the time? And that musical act, and the fellow with
the burnt-cork face who played 'Nearer, My God, to Thee' on the beer
bottles.
Pages:
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137