By breakfast time her fever had increased to such a point that Miss Baker took matters into her own hands and had the German woman call a doctor.  He arrived some twenty minutes later.  He was a big, kindly fellow who lived over the drug store on the corner.  He had a deep voice and a tremendous striding gait less suggestive of a physician than of a sergeant of a cavalry troop.

By the time of his arrival little Miss Baker had divined intuitively the entire trouble.  She heard the doctor’s swinging tramp in the entry below, and heard the German woman saying: 

“Righd oop der stairs, at der back of der halle.  Der room mit der door oppen.”

Miss Baker met the doctor at the landing, she told him in a whisper of the trouble.

“Her husband’s deserted her, I’m afraid, doctor, and took all of her money—­a good deal of it.  It’s about killed the poor child.  She was out of her head a good deal of the night, and now she’s got a raging fever.”

The doctor and Miss Baker returned to the room and entered, closing the door.  The big doctor stood for a moment looking down at Trina rolling her head from side to side upon the pillow, her face scarlet, her enormous mane of hair spread out on either side of her.  The little dressmaker remained at his elbow, looking from him to Trina.

“Poor little woman!” said the doctor; “poor little woman!”

Miss Baker pointed to the trunk, whispering: 

“See, there’s where she kept her savings.  See, he broke the lock.”

“Well, Mrs. McTeague,” said the doctor, sitting down by the bed, and taking Trina’s wrist, “a little fever, eh?”

Trina opened her eyes and looked at him, and then at Miss Baker.  She did not seem in the least surprised at the unfamiliar faces.  She appeared to consider it all as a matter of course.

“Yes,” she said, with a long, tremulous breath, “I have a fever, and my head—­my head aches and aches.”

The doctor prescribed rest and mild opiates.  Then his eye fell upon the fingers of Trina’s right hand.  He looked at them sharply.  A deep red glow, unmistakable to a physician’s eyes, was upon some of them, extending from the finger tips up to the second knuckle.

“Hello,” he exclaimed, “what’s the matter here?” In fact something was very wrong indeed.  For days Trina had noticed it.  The fingers of her right hand had swollen as never before, aching and discolored.  Cruelly lacerated by McTeague’s brutality as they were, she had nevertheless gone on about her work on the Noah’s ark animals, constantly in contact with the “non-poisonous” paint.  She told as much to the doctor in answer to his questions.  He shook his head with an exclamation.

“Why, this is blood-poisoning, you know,” he told her; “the worst kind.  You’ll have to have those fingers amputated, beyond a doubt, or lose the entire hand—­or even worse.”

“And my work!” exclaimed Trina.