“Yes, Sir,” says I, and after I’ve spread ’em out I backs into the bay window and sits down.

“Well, what are you doing there?” says he.

“Waiting orders,” says I.  “Any errands, Mr. Ellins?”

“Errands?” says he.  Then, after thinkin’ a second, he raps out, “Yes.  Do you see that collection of bottles and pills and glasses on the table?  Enough to stock a young drugstore!  And I’ve been pouring that truck into my system by wholesale,—­the pink tablets on the half-hour, the white ones on the quarter, a spoonful of that purple liquid on the even hour, two of the greenish mixtures on the odd, and getting worse every day.  Bah!  I haven’t the courage to do it myself, but by the blue-belted blazes if——­ See here, Boy!  You’re waiting orders, you say?”

“Uh-huh!” says I.

“Then open that window and throw the whole lot into the areaway,” says he.

“Do you mean it, Mr. Ellins?” says I.

“Do I—­yah, don’t I speak plain English?” he growls.  “Can’t you understand a simple——­”

“I got you,” I breaks in.  “Out it goes!” I don’t drop any of it gentle, either.  I slams bottles and glasses down on the flaggin’ and chucks the pills into the next yard.  I makes a clean sweep.

“Thanks, Torchy,” says he.  “The doctor will be here soon.  I’ll tell him you did it.”

“Go as far as you like,” says I.  “Anything else, Sir?”

“Yes,” says he.  “Provide me with a temporary occupation.”

“Come again,” says I.

“I want something to do,” says he.  “Here I’ve been shut up in this confounded house for four mortal days!  I can’t read, can’t eat, can’t sleep.  I just prowl around like a bear with a sore ear.  I want something that will make me forget what a wretched, futile old fool I am.  Do you know of anything that will fill the bill?”

“No, sir,” says I.

“Then think,” says he.  “Come, where is that quick-firing, automatic intellect of yours?  Think, Boy!  What would you do if you were shut up like this?”

“Why,” says I, “I—­I might dig up some kind of games, I guess.”

“Games!” says he.  “That’s worth considering.  Well, here’s some money.  Go get ’em.”

“But what kind, Sir?” says I.

“How the slithering Sisyphus should I know what kind?” he snaps.  “Whose idea is this, anyway?  You suggested games.  Go get ’em, I tell you!  I’ll give you half an hour, while I’m looking over this stuff from the office.  Just half an hour.  Get out!”

It’s a perfectly cute proposition, ain’t it?  Games for a heavy-podded old sinner like him, who’s about as frivolous in his habits as one of them stone lions in front of the new city lib’ry!  But here I was on my way with a yellow-backed twenty in one hand; so it’s up to me to produce.  I pikes straight down the avenue to a joint where they’ve got three floors filled with nothin’ but juvenile joy junk, blows in there on the jump, nails a clerk that looks like he had more or less bean, waves the twenty at him, and remarks casual: