"He's in punk condition," says I. "What's to be done, call an ambulance?" That jars Mr. Robert a lot. I expect he was so worked up he didn't know how rough he was handlin' him, and my suggestin' that he's qualified Bunny for a cot sobers him down in a minute. Next thing I knows he's kneelin' over the Blashford gent and liftin' his head up. "Here, what's the matter with you?" says Mr. Robert. "Don't! Don't strike me again," moans Bunny, cringin'. "No, no, I'm not going to," says Mr. Robert. "And I apologize for shaking you. But what ails you?" "I--I'm all in," says Bunny, beginnin' to sniffle. "Don't--don't beat me! I--I'm going to die; but--but not here, like--like this. I--I don't want to live; but--but I don't want to finish this way, like a rat. Help me, Bob, to--to finish decent. I know I don't deserve it from you; but--but you wouldn't want to see me go like this--dirty and ragged? I--I want to die clean and--and well dressed. Please, Bob, for old time's sake?" "Nonsense, man!" says Mr. Robert. "You're not going to die now." "Yes, I am, Bob," says Bunny. "I--I can tell. I want to, anyway. I--I'm no good. And I'm in rotten shape. Drink, you know, and I've a bad heart. I'm near starved too. It's been days since I've eaten anything--days!" "By George!" says Mr. Robert. "Then you must have something to eat. Here, let me help you up. Torchy, you take the other side. Steady, now! I didn't know you were in such a condition; really, I didn't. And we'll get you filled up right away." "I--I couldn't eat," says Bunny. "I don't want anything. I just want to quit--only--not like this; but clean, Bob, clean and dressed decent once more." Say, maybe you can guess about how cheerin' it was, hearin' him say that over and over in that whiny, tremblin' voice of his, watchin' them shifty, deep-set eyes glisten glassy under the light. About as comfortin' a sight, he was, as a sick dog in a corner. And of all the rummy ideas to get in his nut--that about bein' dressed up to die! But he keeps harpin' away on it until fin'ly Mr. Robert takes notice. "Yes, yes!" says the boss. "We'll attend to that, old man. But you need some nourishment in you first." So we drags him over to the opposite corner, where there's a drugstore, and got a glass of hot milk under his vest. Then I calls a taxi, and we all starts for the nearest Turkish bath joint. "That's all, Torchy," says Mr. Robert. "I won't bother you any more with this wretched business. You'd best go now." "Suppose something happens to him?" says I. "You'll need a witness, won't you?" "I hadn't thought of that," says he. "There's no tellin'," says I. "Them coroners deputies are mostly boneheads. I'd better stay on the job." "I know of no one I'd rather have, Torchy," says he.