"I've been giving _you_ trouble!" Fleetwood said self-righteously. "What about the trouble you've been giving me? And not just lately. To date, under your gentle auspices, I have sustained twelve broken noses, seventeen crushed ribs, nine bullet wounds in the shoulders--five right, four left--three skull fractures and a sprained thumb. As for the black eyes, superficial lacerations, burns and random bruises, we'll just pass those by as too numerous and picayune to inventory at this time. However--and I wish to make this abundantly clear--I'm stuffed to the glottis with the whole muggy business. In fact, to be perfectly honest with you, Dermitt, my nerves won't stand any more of it. You can't imagine how it shakes me to face a loaded gun anymore, let alone turn my back on one, as you had me do this evening. If I should ever have to repeat such a performance I wouldn't be a bit surprised if I broke down and had a severe attack of the vapors. You may call me a sissy if you like, but the wear and tear on my nervous system is beginning to tell in my emotional reactions and I don't want any more of it." "Yes," Dermitt said, momentarily overwhelmed. "I suppose I have been a little rough on you, but I...." * * * * * "Exactly," Fleetwood cut in. "And never a hint of any sort of compensation or old age retirement. Not that that's the main consideration. If you had made me into one of those gentleman, garden-party type detectives, that would be an entirely different matter. Those boys go to all the best places, rub elbows with the cream of society and live off the fat of the land. They have a chance to improve themselves socially and prosper in the bargain. But this other routine, this rowdyism and mucking about with the absolute scum of the earth--well, let me tell you, it takes it out of a man and puts nothing back in return. So you'll understand when I say I'm quitting and getting out." "Quitting!" Dermitt half rose from his chair, his eyes large enough to almost fill the circles of his enormous glasses. "Do you mean you actually intend--" "I do," Fleetwood nodded emphatically. "Now that I have the chance to get out of the thing and take up a real life for myself I mean to do so. I felt it was only fair, though, to look you up first and explain my reasons." "But you can't!" Dermitt squeaked. "You're just a fictional character! You can't do that to me!" He swallowed excitedly, held out a hand of supplication. "I didn't mean to be so hard on you, Cassidy. Believe me, if I had only known...." "I know," Fleetwood said. "And I don't bear any grudges. As far as that goes I'm exceedingly grateful to you in a way. After all, if it weren't for you I might never have seen the light of day at all. In fact, if you don't mind, there are moments when I'm somewhat inclined to regard you in much the same way as a son might regard his father."