“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.
The party filed out at the tail end of the audience. Already the lights were being extinguished and the ushers spreading druggeting over the upholstered seats.
McTeague and the Sieppes took an uptown car that would bring them near Polk Street. The car was crowded; McTeague and Owgooste were obliged to stand. The little boy fretted to be taken in his mother's lap, but Mrs. Sieppe emphatically refused.
On their way home they discussed the performance.
“I—I like best der yodlers.”
“Ah, the soloist was the best—the lady who sang those sad songs.”
“Wasn't—wasn't that magic lantern wonderful, where the figures moved? Wonderful—ah, wonderful! And wasn't that first act funny, where the fellow fell down all the time? And that musical act, and the fellow with the burnt-cork face who played 'Nearer, My God, to Thee' on the beer bottles.”
They got off at Polk Street and walked up a block to the flat. The street was dark and empty; opposite the flat, in the back of the deserted market, the ducks and geese were calling persistently.
As they were buying their tamales from the half-breed Mexican at the street corner, McTeague observed:
“Marcus ain't gone to bed yet. See, there's a light in his window. There!” he exclaimed at once, “I forgot the doorkey. Well, Marcus can let us in.”
Hardly had he rung the bell at the street door of the flat when the bolt was shot back. In the hall at the top of the long, narrow staircase there was the sound of a great scurrying. Maria Macapa stood there, her hand upon the rope that drew the bolt; Marcus was at her side; Old Grannis was in the background, looking over their shoulders; while little Miss Baker leant over the banisters, a strange man in a drab overcoat at her side. As McTeague's party stepped into the doorway a half-dozen voices cried:
“Yes, it's them.”
“Is that you, Mac?”
“Is that you, Miss Sieppe?”
“Is your name Trina Sieppe?”
Then, shriller than all the rest, Maria Macapa screamed:
“Oh, Miss Sieppe, come up here quick. Your lottery ticket has won five thousand dollars!”
CHAPTER 7
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“WHAT NONSENSE!” ANSWERED Trina.
“Ach Gott! What is ut?” cried Mrs. Sieppe, misunderstanding, supposing a calamity.
“What—what—what,” stammered the dentist, confused by the lights, the crowded stairway, the medley of voices. The party reached the landing. The others surrounded them. Marcus alone seemed to rise to the occasion.
“Le' me be the first to congratulate you,” he cried, catching Trina's hand. Every one was talking at once.
“Miss Sieppe, Miss Sieppe, your ticket has won five thousand dollars,” cried Maria. “Don't you remember the lottery ticket I sold you in Doctor McTeague's office?”
“Trina!” almost screamed her mother. “Five tausend thalers! five tausend thalers! If popper were only here!”
“What is it—what is it?” exclaimed McTeague, rolling his eyes.
“What are you going to do with it, Trina?” inquired Marcus.
“You're a rich woman, my dear,” said Miss Baker, her little false curls quivering with excitement, “and I'm glad for your sake. Let me kiss you. To think I was in the room when you bought the ticket!”
“Oh, oh!” interrupted Trina, shaking her head, “there is a mistake. There must be. Why—why should I win five thousand dollars? It's nonsense!”
“No mistake, no mistake,” screamed Maria. “Your number was 400,012. Here it is in the paper this evening. I remember it well, because I keep an account.”
“But I know you're wrong,” answered Trina, beginning to tremble in spite of herself. “Why should I win?”
“Eh? Why shouldn't you?” cried her mother.
In fact, why shouldn't she? The idea suddenly occurred to Trina. After all, it was not a question of effort or merit on her part. Why should she suppose a mistake? What if it were true, this wonderful fillip of fortune striking in there like some chance-driven bolt?
“Oh, do you think so?” she gasped.
The stranger in the drab overcoat came forward.
“It's the agent,” cried two or three voices, simultaneously.
“I