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.