th a sudden restlessness. He twisted and wriggled in his seat,
swinging his legs violently, looking about him with eyes full of a vague
distress. At length, just as the musicians were returning, he stood
up and whispered energetically in his mother's ear. Mrs. Sieppe was
exasperated at once.

"No, no," she cried, reseating him brusquely.

The performance was resumed. A lightning artist appeared, drawing
caricatures and portraits with incredible swiftness. He even went so far
as to ask for subjects from the audience, and the names of prominent
men were shouted to him from the gallery. He drew portraits of the
President, of Grant, of Washington, of Napoleon Bonaparte, of Bismarck,
of Garibaldi, of P. T. Barnum.

And so the evening passed. The hall grew very hot, and the smoke of
innumerable cigars made the eyes smart. A thick blue mist hung low over
the heads of the audience. The air was full of varied smells--the
smell of stale cigars, of flat beer, of orange peel, of gas, of sachet
powders, and of cheap perfumery.

One "artist" after another came upon the stage. McTeague's attention
never wandered for a minute. Trina and her mother enjoyed themselves
hugely. At every moment they made comments to one another, their eyes
never leaving the stage.

"Ain't dot fool joost too funny?"

"That's a pretty song. Don't you like that kind of a song?"

"Wonderful! It's wonderful! Yes, yes, wonderful! That's the word."

Owgooste, however, lost interest. He stood up in his place, his back to
the stage, chewing a piece of orange peel and watching a little girl in
her father's lap across the aisle, his eyes fixed in a glassy, ox-like
stare. But he was uneasy. He danced from one foot to the other, and at
intervals appealed in hoarse whispers to his mother, who disdained an
answer.

"Ma, say, ma-ah," he whined, abstractedly chewing his orange peel,
staring at the little girl.

"Ma-ah, say, ma." At times his monotonous plaint reached his mother's
consciousness. She suddenly realized what this was that was annoying
her.

"Owgooste, will you sit down?" She caught him up all at once, and jammed
him down into his place. "Be quiet, den; loog; listun at der yunge
girls."

Three young women and a young man who played a zither occupied the
stage. They were dressed in Tyrolese costume; they were yodlers, and
sang in German about "mountain tops" and "bold hunters" and the like.
The yodling chorus was a marvel of flute-like modulations