One morning about a week after Marcus had left for the southern part of the State, McTeague found an oblong letter thrust through the letter-drop of the door of his “Parlors.” The address was typewritten. He opened it. The letter had been sent from the City Hall and was stamped in one corner with the seal of the State of California, very official; the form and file numbers superscribed.

McTeague had been making fillings when this letter arrived. He was in his “Parlors,” pottering over his movable rack underneath the bird cage in the bay window. He was making “blocks” to be used in large proximal cavities and “cylinders” for commencing fillings. He heard the postman's step in the hall and saw the envelopes begin to shuttle themselves through the slit of his letter-drop. Then came the fat oblong envelope, with its official seal, that dropped flatwise to the floor with a sodden, dull impact.

The dentist put down the broach and scissors and gathered up his mail. There were four letters altogether. One was for Trina, in Selina's “elegant” handwriting; another was an advertisement of a new kind of operating chair for dentists; the third was a card from a milliner on the next block, announcing an opening; and the fourth, contained in the fat oblong envelope, was a printed form with blanks left for names and dates, and addressed to McTeague, from an office in the City Hall. McTeague read it through laboriously. “I don' know, I don' know,” he muttered, looking stupidly at the rifle manufacturer's calendar. Then he heard Trina, from the kitchen, singing as she made a clattering noise with the breakfast dishes. “I guess I'll ask Trina about it,” he muttered.

He went through the suite, by the sitting-room, where the sun was pouring in through the looped backed Nottingham curtains upon the clean white matting and the varnished surface of the melodeon, passed on through the bedroom, with its framed lithographs of round-cheeked English babies and alert fox terriers, and came out into the brick-paved kitchen. The kitchen was clean as a new whistle; the freshly blackened cook stove glowed like a negro's hide; the tins and porcelain-lined stew-pans might have been of silver and of ivory. Trina was in the centre of the room, wiping off, with a damp sponge, the oilcloth table-cover, on which they had breakfasted. Never had she looked so pretty. Early though it was, her enormous tiara of swarthy hair was neatly combed and coiled, not a pin was so much as loose. She wore a blue calico skirt with a white figure, and a belt of imitation alligator skin clasped around her small, firmly-corseted waist; her shirt waist was of pink linen, so new and crisp that it crackled with every movement, while around the collar, tied in a neat knot, was one of McTeague's lawn ties which she had appropriated. Her sleeves were carefully rolled up almost to her shoulders, and nothing could have been more delicious than the sight of her small round arms, white as milk, moving back and forth as she sponged the table-cover, a faint touch of pink coming and going at the elbows as they bent and straightened. She looked up quickly as her husband entered, her narrow eyes alight, her adorable little chin in the air; her lips rounded and opened with the last words of her song, so that one could catch a glint of gold in the fillings of her upper teeth.

The whole scene—the clean kitchen and its clean brick floor; the smell of coffee that lingered in the air; Trina herself, fresh as if from a bath, and singing at her work; the morning sun, striking obliquely through the white muslin half-curtain of the window and spanning the little kitchen with a bridge of golden mist—gave off, as it were, a note of gayety that was not to be resisted. Through the opened top of the window came the noises of Polk Street, already long awake. One heard the chanting of street cries, the shrill calling of children on their way to school, the merry rattle of a butcher's cart, the brisk noise of hammering, or the occasional prolonged roll of a cable car trundling heavily past, with a vibrant whirring of its jostled glass and the joyous clanging of its bells.

“What is it, Mac, dear?” said Trina.

McTeague shut the door behind him with his heel and handed her the letter. Trina read it through. Then suddenly her small hand gripped tightly upon the sponge, so that the water started from it and dripped in a little pattering deluge upon the bricks.

The letter—or rather printed notice—informed McTeague that he had never received a diploma from a dental college, and that in consequence he was forbidden to practise his profession any longer. A legal extract bearing upon the case was attached in small type.

“Why, what's all this?” said Trina, calmly, without thought as yet.

“I don' know, I don' know,” answered her husband.

“You can't practise any longer,” continued Trina,—“'is herewith prohibited and enjoined from further continuing——'” She re-read the extract, her forehead lifting and puckering. She put the sponge carefully away in its wire rack over the sink, and drew up a chair to the table, spreading out the notice before her. “Sit down,” she said to McTeague. “Draw up to the table here, Mac, and let's see what this is.”

“I got it this morning,” murmured the dentist. “It just now came. I was making some fillings—there, in the 'Parlors,' in the window—and the postman shoved it through the door. I thought it was a number of the 'American System of Dentistry' at first, and when I'd opened it and looked at it I thought I'd better——”

“Say, Mac,” interrupted Trina, looking up from the notice, “DIDN'T you ever go to a dental college?”

“Huh? What? What?” exclaimed McTeague.

“How did you learn to be a dentist? Did you go to a college?”

“I went along with a fellow who came to the mine once. My mother sent me. We used to go from one camp to another. I sharpened his excavators for him, and put up his notices in the towns—stuck them up in the post-offices and on the doors of the Odd Fellows' halls. He had a wagon.”

“But didn't you never go to a college?”

“Huh? What? College? No, I never went. I learned from the fellow.”

Trina rolled down her sleeves. She was a little paler than usual. She fastened the buttons into the cuffs and said:

“But do you know you can't practise unless you're graduated from a college? You haven't the right to call yourself, 'doctor.'”

McTeague stared a moment; then:

“Why, I've been practising ten years. More—nearly twelve.”

“But it's the law.”

“What's the law?”

“That you can't practise, or call yourself doctor, unless you've got a diploma.”

“What's that—a diploma?”

“I don't know exactly. It's a kind of paper that—that—oh, Mac, we're ruined.” Trina's voice rose to a cry.

“What do you mean, Trina? Ain't I a dentist? Ain't I a doctor? Look at my sign, and the gold tooth you gave me. Why, I've been practising nearly twelve years.”

Trina shut her lips tightly, cleared her throat, and pretended to resettle a hair-pin at the back of her head.

“I guess it isn't as bad as that,” she said, very quietly. “Let's read this again. 'Herewith prohibited and enjoined from further continuing——'” She read to the end.

“Why, it isn't possible,” she cried. “They can't mean—oh, Mac, I do believe—pshaw!” she exclaimed, her pale face flushing. “They don't know how good a dentist you are. What difference does a diploma make, if you're a first-class dentist? I guess that's all right. Mac, didn't you ever go to a dental college?”

“No,” answered McTeague, doggedly. “What was the good? I learned how to operate; wa'n't that enough?”

“Hark,” said Trina, suddenly. “Wasn't that the bell of your office?” They had both heard the jangling of the bell that McTeague had hung over the door of his “Parlors.” The dentist looked at the kitchen clock.

“That's Vanovitch,” said he. “He's a plumber round on Sutter Street. He's got an appointment with me to have a bicuspid pulled. I got to go back to work.” He rose.

“But you can't,” cried Trina, the back of her hand upon her lips, her eyes brimming. “Mac, don't you see? Can't you understand? You've got to stop. Oh, it's dreadful! Listen.” She hurried around the table to him and caught his arm in both her hands.

“Huh?” growled McTeague, looking at her with a puzzled frown.

“They'll arrest you. You'll go to prison. You can't work—can't work any more. We're ruined.”

Vanovitch was pounding on the door of the sitting-room.

“He'll be gone in a minute,” exclaimed McTeague.

“Well, let him go. Tell him to go; tell him to come again.”

“Why, he's got an APPOINTMENT with me,” exclaimed McTeague, his hand upon the door.

Trina caught him back. “But, Mac, you ain't a dentist any longer; you ain't a doctor. You haven't the right to work. You never went to a dental college.”

“Well, suppose I never went to a college, ain't I a dentist just the same? Listen, he's pounding there again. No, I'm going, sure.”

“Well, of course, go,” said Trina, with sudden reaction. “It ain't possible they'll make you stop. If you're a good dentist, that's all that's wanted. Go on, Mac; hurry, before he goes.”

McTeague went out, closing the door. Trina stood for a moment looking intently at the bricks at her feet. Then she returned to the table, and sat down again before the notice, and, resting her head in both her fists, read it yet another time. Suddenly the conviction seized upon her that it was all true. McTeague would be obliged to stop work, no matter how good a dentist he was. But why had the authorities at the City Hall waited this long before serving the notice? All at once Trina snapped her fingers, with a quick flash of intelligence.

“It's Marcus that's done it,” she cried.

It was like a clap of thunder. McTeague was stunned, stupefied. He said nothing. Never in his life had he been so taciturn. At times he did not seem to hear Trina when she spoke to him, and often she had to shake him by the shoulder to arouse his attention. He would sit apart in his “Parlors,” turning the notice about in his enormous clumsy fingers, reading it stupidly over and over again. He couldn't understand. What had a clerk at the City Hall to do with him? Why couldn't they let him alone?

“Oh, what's to become of us NOW?” wailed Trina. “What's to become of us now? We're paupers, beggars—and all so sudden.” And once, in a quick, inexplicable fury, totally unlike anything that McTeague had noticed in her before, she had started up, with fists and teeth shut tight, and had cried, “Oh, if you'd only KILLED Marcus Schouler that time he fought you!”

McTeague had continued his work, acting from sheer force of habit; his sluggish, deliberate nature, methodical, obstinate, refusing to adapt itself to the new conditions.

“Maybe Marcus was only trying to scare us,” Trina had said. “How are they going to know whether you're practising or not?”

“I got a mould to make to-morrow,” McTeague said, “and Vanovitch, that plumber round on Sutter Street, he's coming again at three.”

“Well, you go right ahead,” Trina told him, decisively; “you go right ahead and make the mould, and pull every tooth in Vanovitch's head if you want to. Who's going to know? Maybe they just sent that notice as a matter of form. Maybe Marcus got that paper and filled it in himself.”

The two would lie awake all night long, staring up into the dark, talking, talking, talking.

“Haven't you got any right to practise if you've not been to a dental college, Mac? Didn't you ever go?” Trina would ask again and again.

“No, no,” answered the dentist, “I never went. I learnt from the fellow I was apprenticed to. I don' know anything about a dental college. Ain't I got a right to do as I like?” he suddenly exclaimed.

“If you know your profession, isn't that enough?” cried Trina.

“Sure, sure,” growled McTeague. “I ain't going to stop for them.”

“You go right on,” Trina said, “and I bet you won't hear another word about it.”

“Suppose I go round to the City Hall and see them,” hazarded McTeague.

“No, no, don't you do it, Mac,” exclaimed Trina. “Because, if Marcus has done this just to scare you, they won't know anything about it there at the City Hall; but they'll begin to ask you questions, and find out that you never HAD graduated from a dental college, and you'd be just as bad off as ever.”

“Well, I ain't going to quit for just a piece of paper,” declared the dentist. The phrase stuck to him. All day long he went about their rooms or continued at his work in the “Parlors,” growling behind his thick mustache: “I ain't going to quit for just a piece of paper. No, I ain't going to quit for just a piece of paper. Sure not.”

The days passed, a week went by, McTeague continued his work as usual. They heard no more from the City Hall, but the suspense of the situation was harrowing. Trina was actually sick with it. The terror of the thing was ever at their elbows, going to bed with them, sitting down with them at breakfast in the kitchen, keeping them company all through the day. Trina dared not think of what would be their fate if the income derived from McTeague's practice was suddenly taken from them. Then they would have to fall back on the interest of her lottery money and the pittance she derived from the manufacture of the Noah's ark animals, a little over thirty dollars a month. No, no, it was not to be thought of. It could not be that their means of livelihood was to be thus stricken from them.

A fortnight went by. “I guess we're all right, Mac,” Trina allowed herself to say. “It looks as though we were all right. How are they going to tell whether you're practising or not?”

That day a second and much more peremptory notice was served upon McTeague by an official in person. Then suddenly Trina was seized with a panic terror, unreasoned, instinctive. If McTeague persisted they would both be sent to a prison, she was sure of it; a place where people were chained to the wall, in the dark, and fed on bread and water.

“Oh, Mac, you've got to quit,” she wailed. “You can't go on. They can make you stop. Oh, why didn't you go to a dental college? Why didn't you find out that you had to have a college degree? And now we're paupers, beggars. We've got to leave here—leave this flat where I've been—where WE'VE been so happy, and sell all the pretty things; sell the pictures and the melodeon, and—Oh, it's too dreadful!”

“Huh? Huh? What? What?” exclaimed the dentist, bewildered. “I ain't going to quit for just a piece of paper. Let them put me out. I'll show them. They—they can't make small of me.”

“Oh, that's all very fine to talk that way, but you'll have to quit.”

“Well, we ain't paupers,” McTeague suddenly exclaimed, an idea entering his mind. “We've got our money yet. You've got your five thousand dollars and the money you've been saving up. People ain't paupers when they've got over five thousand dollars.”

“What do you mean, Mac?” cried Trina, apprehensively.

“Well, we can live on THAT money until—until—until—” he broke off with an uncertain movement of his shoulders, looking about him stupidly.

“Until WHEN?” cried Trina. “There ain't ever going to be any 'until.' We've got the INTEREST of that five thousand and we've got what Uncle Oelbermann gives me, a little over thirty dollars a month, and that's all we've got. You'll have to find something else to do.”

“What will I find to do?”

What, indeed? McTeague was over thirty now, sluggish and slow-witted at best. What new trade could he learn at this age?

Little by little Trina made the dentist understand the calamity that had befallen them, and McTeague at last began cancelling his appointments. Trina gave it out that he was sick.

“Not a soul need know what's happened to us,” she said to her husband.

But it was only by slow degrees that McTeague abandoned his profession. Every morning after breakfast he would go into his “Parlors” as usual and potter about his instruments, his dental engine, and his washstand in the corner behind his screen where he made his moulds. Now he would sharpen a “hoe” excavator, now he would busy himself for a whole hour making “mats” and “cylinders.” Then he would look over his slate where he kept a record of his appointments.

One day Trina softly opened the door of the “Parlors” and came in from the sitting-room. She had not heard McTeague moving about for some time and had begun to wonder what he was doing. She came in, quietly shutting the door behind her.

McTeague had tidied the room with the greatest care. The volumes of the “Practical Dentist” and the “American System of Dentistry” were piled upon the marble-top centre-table in rectangular blocks. The few chairs were drawn up against the wall under the steel engraving of “Lorenzo de' Medici” with more than usual precision. The dental engine and the nickelled trimmings of the operating chair had been furbished till they shone, while on the movable rack in the bay window McTeague had arranged his instruments with the greatest neatness and regularity. “Hoe” excavators, pluggers, forceps, pliers, corundum disks and burrs, even the boxwood mallet that Trina was never to use again, all were laid out and ready for immediate use.

McTeague himself sat in his operating chair, looking stupidly out of the windows, across the roofs opposite, with an unseeing gaze, his red hands lying idly in his lap. Trina came up to him. There was something in his eyes that made her put both arms around his neck and lay his huge head with its coarse blond hair upon her shoulder.

“I—I got everything fixed,” he said. “I got everything fixed an' ready. See, everything ready an' waiting, an'—an'—an' nobody comes, an' nobody's ever going to come any more. Oh, Trina!” He put his arms about her and drew her down closer to him.

“Never mind, dear; never mind,” cried Trina, through her tears. “It'll all come right in the end, and we'll be poor together if we have to. You can sure find something else to do. We'll start in again.”

“Look at the slate there,” said McTeague, pulling away from her and reaching down the slate on which he kept a record of his appointments. “Look at them. There's Vanovitch at two on Wednesday, and Loughhead's wife Thursday morning, and Heise's little girl Thursday afternoon at one-thirty; Mrs. Watson on Friday, and Vanovitch again Saturday morning early—at seven. That's what I was to have had, and they ain't going to come. They ain't ever going to come any more.”

Trina took the little slate from him and looked at it ruefully.

“Rub them out,” she said, her voice trembling; “rub it all out;” and as she spoke her eyes brimmed again, and a great tear dropped on the slate. “That's it,” she said; “that's the way to rub it out, by me crying on it.” Then she passed her fingers over the tear-blurred writing and washed the slate clean. “All gone, all gone,” she said.

“All gone,” echoed the dentist. There was a silence. Then McTeague heaved himself up to his full six feet two, his face purpling, his enormous mallet-like fists raised over his head. His massive jaw protruded more than ever, while his teeth clicked and grated together; then he growled:

“If ever I meet Marcus Schouler—” he broke off abruptly, the white of his eyes growing suddenly pink.

“Oh, if ever you DO,” exclaimed Trina, catching her breath.