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.”