"Come on, get up and get out of here, you filthy bum," it was shouting. "We've got no rooms for the likes of you in this hotel." I shook my head to clear away the fog over my eyes. The indignant face of a maid was staring at me. "You ought to be ashamed," she said shrilly, "vomiting on the rug! Where do you think you are, in the park?" "Get a wet towel and bring him to," the desk clerk ordered.... I reached the precarious footing of the sidewalk with a feeling that I had been rushed too much, and with the afternoon sun ejecting fiery red shafts of searing pain into my brain through my punctured eye-balls. People were staring at me as they passed. In an attempt to appear casual I stuck my hands in my pockets. The fingers of my right hand encountered something stiff, with sharp corners. Swaying to maintain my balance, and casually whistling snatches of some nameless tune, I pulled the thing out and held it up where I could focus my eyes on it. It was Dr. Leopold Moriss' card. I managed an uncertain about face and thumbed my nose at the entrance to the hotel; only it was my ear, and my thumb bumped it so painfully that the pleasure I had anticipated at my insult was destroyed. When my consciousness settled into enough stability to be aware of outside impressions once more, I was in a taxi, bumping along a cobblestone street. There were no springs on the cab, and the back of the driver's head sneered at me and dared me to open the door and jump to my death. I wondered where I was being taken. Then my eyes caught the white rectangle still held in my fingers. The doctor's card. So I was on my way at last. On my way? I was there! The taxi had swerved abruptly to the curb and stopped. I slid forward off the seat. When the driver came around and opened the door I managed to get up on my knees. That was all. He opened the door and stood there patiently. I studied the sidewalk and tried to figure out how to make it from the position I was in. I gave up, and appealed to him with my eyes. "Here we go," he said good naturedly, lifting me out and balancing me carefully on my feet. "The fare is a buck eighty-five." "Help me up the steps," I said, stalling. I was trying to remember if I had any money left. I had a strong suspicion I hadn't. His hands held me up and pushed me across the walk and up the steps while I fumbled in a fruitless search of my pockets. At the top of the steps my fingers encountered the cool smoothness of a piece of paper in my coat pocket. I pulled it out and held it up to the driver. He steadied me against the frame of the door. Then he counted out change, closing my fingers over the money. The sound of the taxi pulling away from the curb let me know I was on my own. It was a diminishing yellow spot far down the street.