I let him rise, almost palsied with horror.

He perched on the edge of the bed, exhausted,—­began groping with one hand, in the air, idly.

“What is it?  What do you want?”

“Give me my pants!  I don’t trust you.  I want to go to the corner and get a drink ... give me my pants!”

“Pop, look at me ... stop this nonsense ... you’re safe ...  I’m your son, Johnnie!”

“That’s all very well,” he assented with an air of reserved cunning.

“Please believe me,” I pleaded.

“All right ... you are my son ... only don’t kill me,” he responded craftily.

“Father!... good God!”

He perceived by the emotion of my last exclamation, that at least I was not ill-disposed toward him.

He clutched at the advantage.

“Promise to take care of me till Johnnie comes—­he’s just around the corner,” slyly.

“Pop, what is it you want?  What can I do for you?”

“A curious greed flickered in his eyes.

“Get me a drink!”

“All right!  I’ll get it for you!”

“Let me think!  There’s none in the house ... none left, Emily said.”

“But I brought some with me ... wait a minute.”  I went into the kitchen, turned on the tap softly, filled a glass half full of water, brought it back to him.

“Here it is.”

“I don’t like the colour of it.”

“Why, it has a nice, rich colour.”

“What is it?—­Scotch?”

“Yes.”

He sipped of it.  Made a rueful face.  “I don’t like the taste of it ... it tastes too much like water,” he commented, with a quiet, grave, matter-of-fact grimace that set me laughing, in spite of myself....

“Drink it down!  I swear it’s all right.”

He tossed off the water.

“Give me my pants.  I want to get out of here.”

“Why, wasn’t that whiskey that I just gave you?”

“Yes, yes ... but not very good stuff.  I know where I can get better.”

Humouring him, I helped him into his trousers ... painfully he put on his shirt, neatly tied his tie, while I steadied him.  This manual function seemed to better his condition straightway.  He startled me by turning to me with a look of amused recognition in his eyes.  He was no longer off his head, just a very sick man.

“Well, Johnnie, so you’re back again?”

“Yes, Pop—­back again!”

“What are you going to do next?” he queried wearily, seating himself laboriously in an armchair.

“Stay, and take care of you!”

“That will be unnecessary.  I have had a rather severe attack of malaria ... that is all ... left me rather weak ... but now I’m getting over it ... had to take a lot of whiskey and quinine, though, to break it up!

“Malaria comes on me, every spring, you know ... harder than usual, this spring, though ... it’s made me dotty ... made me say things, at times, I’m afraid!”