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

     “You do not love me—­no;
     Bid me good-by and go;”

and split her new gloves in her enthusiasm when it was finished.

“Don’t you love sad music, Mac?” she murmured.

Then came the two comedians.  They talked with fearful rapidity; their wit and repartee seemed inexhaustible.

“As I was going down the street yesterday—­”

“Ah! as you were going down the street—­all right.”

“I saw a girl at a window——­”

“You saw a girl at a window.”

“And this girl she was a corker——­”

“Ah! as you were going down the street yesterday you saw a girl at a window, and this girl she was a corker.  All right, go on.”

The other comedian went on.  The joke was suddenly evolved.  A certain phrase led to a song, which was sung with lightning rapidity, each performer making precisely the same gestures at precisely the same instant.  They were irresistible.  McTeague, though he caught but a third of the jokes, could have listened all night.

After the comedians had gone out, the iron advertisement curtain was let down.

“What comes now?” said McTeague, bewildered.

“It’s the intermission of fifteen minutes now.”

The musicians disappeared through the rabbit hutch, and the audience stirred and stretched itself.  Most of the young men left their seats.

During this intermission McTeague and his party had “refreshments.”  Mrs. Sieppe and Trina had Queen Charlottes, McTeague drank a glass of beer, Owgooste ate the orange and one of the bananas.  He begged for a glass of lemonade, which was finally given him.

“Joost to geep um quiet,” observed Mrs. Sieppe.