"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.