“Worse than that,” says Mr. Robert, “a sneaking, contemptible hound!  Trying to pass yourself off for Melly, were you?” he goes on.  “Of all men, Melly!  What for?”

“I—­I didn’t want you to know I was back,” whines Bunny.  “And I had to get money somehow, Bob—­honest, I did.”

“Bah!” says Mr. Robert.  “You—­you——­”

But he ain’t got any such vocabulary as old Hickory Ellins has; so here, when he needs it most, all he can do is express his deep disgust by shakin’ this Bunny party like a new hired girl dustin’ a rug.  He jerks him this way and that so reckless that I was afraid he’d rattle him apart, and when he fin’lly lets loose Bunny goes all in a heap on the sidewalk.  I’d never seen Mr. Robert get real wrathy before; but it’s all over in a minute, and he glances around like he was ashamed.

“Hang it all!” says he, gazin’ at the wreck.  “I didn’t mean to lay my hands on him.”

“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.