“Ma-ah,” began Owgooste fretfully, as soon as the yodlers had departed.  He could not keep still an instant; he twisted from side to side, swinging his legs with incredible swiftness.

“Ma-ah, I want to go ho-ome.”

“Pehave!” exclaimed his mother, shaking him by the arm; “loog, der leedle girl is watchun you.  Dis is der last dime I take you to der blay, you see.”

“I don’t ca-are; I’m sleepy.”  At length, to their great relief, he went to sleep, his head against his mother’s arm.

The kinetoscope fairly took their breaths away.

“What will they do next?” observed Trina, in amazement.  “Ain’t that wonderful, Mac?”

McTeague was awe-struck.

“Look at that horse move his head,” he cried excitedly, quite carried away.  “Look at that cable car coming—­and the man going across the street.  See, here comes a truck.  Well, I never in all my life!  What would Marcus say to this?”

“It’s all a drick!” exclaimed Mrs. Sieppe, with sudden conviction.  “I ain’t no fool; dot’s nothun but a drick.”

“Well, of course, mamma,” exclaimed Trina, “it’s——­”

But Mrs. Sieppe put her head in the air.

“I’m too old to be fooled,” she persisted.  “It’s a drick.”  Nothing more could be got out of her than this.

The party stayed to the very end of the show, though the kinetoscope was the last number but one on the programme, and fully half the audience left immediately afterward.  However, while the unfortunate Irish comedian went through his “act” to the backs of the departing people, Mrs. Sieppe woke Owgooste, very cross and sleepy, and began getting her “things together.”  As soon as he was awake Owgooste began fidgeting again.

“Save der brogramme, Trina,” whispered Mrs. Sieppe.  “Take ut home to popper.  Where is der hat of Owgooste?  Haf you got mein handkerchief, Trina?”

But at this moment a dreadful accident happened to Owgooste; his distress reached its climax; his fortitude collapsed.  What a misery!  It was a veritable catastrophe, deplorable, lamentable, a thing beyond words!  For a moment he gazed wildly about him, helpless and petrified with astonishment and terror.  Then his grief found utterance, and the closing strains of the orchestra were mingled with a prolonged wail of infinite sadness.

“Owgooste, what is ut?” cried his mother eyeing him with dawning suspicion; then suddenly, “What haf you done?  You haf ruin your new Vauntleroy gostume!” Her face blazed; without more ado she smacked him soundly.  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.