As the fever began to subside Traverse's practice declined, and
about the middle of November his "occupation was gone."
We said that his office was in the most respectable locality in the
city; it was, in fact, on the ground floor of a first-class hotel.
It happened that one night, near the close of winter, Traverse lay
awake on his sofa-bedstead, turning over in his mind how he should
contrive to make both ends meet at the conclusion of the present
term and feeling as near despondency as it was possible for his
buoyant and God-trusting soul to be, when there came a loud ringing
at his office bell.
This reminded him of the stirring days and nights of the preceding
autumn. He started up at once to answer the summons.
"Who's there?"
"Is Doctor Rocke in?"
"Yes, what's wanted?"
"A gentleman, sir, in the house here, sir, taken very bad, wants the
doctor directly, room number 555."
"Very well, I will be with the gentleman immediately," answered
Traverse, plunging his head into a basin of cold water and drying it
hastily.
In five minutes Traverse was in the office of the hotel, inquiring
for a waiter to show him up into 555.
One was ordered to attend him, who led the way up several flights of
stairs and around divers galleries, until he opened a door and
ushered the doctor immediately into the sick room.
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