"He has the willies, if you know what that is. You'll only drive him into trouble—just as you've always done. And it's a dirty shame to be bothering him. We can't do anything for him, and he knows it. He can't do anything for himself—and he knows it. What he needs is chloroform to put him out of his misery. I don't believe in this particular form of vivisection, if you want to know!"
"It—it seems to me that if we're ever going to get him away, we—we ought to be able to do it now—while he's"
"Yes! Well, if you could see his face when's he's trying not to talk about it, you wouldn't relish the job."
Don turned over the papers in his hand, looking down at them. "I wish you'd taken these in to him."
"Go and take them yourself. Do!"
"Isn't there any place I could leave them for him? I'd rather write."
Pittsey laughed harshly. "By all means, write!"
"Could I leave them at the hotel?"
"No. He's not known at the hotel any more than a hundred other tramps that come in there to get warm."
Don winced. "How about the place—the other place where you"
They were standing under a corner light, and Don, for all his meekness, was stubbornly unmoved by Pittsey's impatience to be away and done with the whole matter.
"Look here," Pittsey said. "If I take you there and leave them for him, that's all. You can do what you like about it. I'll not wait another minute for you, you understand?"
