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."

The acrobats left him breathless. They were dazzling young men with
beautifully parted hair, continually making graceful gestures to the
audience. In one of them the dentist fancied he saw a strong resemblance
to the boy who had tormented the intoxicated lodger and who had turned
such marvellous somersaults. Trina could not bear to watch their antics.
She turned away her head with a little shudder. "It always makes me
sick," she explained.

The beautiful young lady, "The Society Contralto," in evening dress, who
sang the sentimental songs, and carried the sheets of music at which she
never looked, pleased McTeague less. Trina, however, was captivated. She
grew pensive over