Part 2 (1/2)

As I stood by the bed and studied his sullen, suspicious, unfriendly face, I came to the conclusion that if this were not McGee himself it could very well be some one quite as dangerous.

”Friend,” said I, ”we do not as a rule seek information about the guests in these rooms. We do not have to; they explain themselves. I should never question your a.s.sertion that your name is Flint, and I sincerely hope it is Flint; but--there are reasons why I must and do ask you for certain definite information about yourself.”

The hand lying upon the coverlet balled into a fist.

”If John Flint's not fancy enough for you,” he suggested truculently, ”suppose you call me Percy? Some peach of a moniker, Percy, ain't it?”

”Percy?”

”Sure, Percy,” he grinned impudently. ”But if you got a grouch against Percy, can it, and make me Algy. _I_ don't mind. It's not _me_ beefing about monikers; it's you.”

”I am also,” said I, regarding him steadily and ignoring his flippancy, ”I am also obliged to ask you what is your occupation--when you are not stealing rides?”

”Looks like it might be answering questions just now, don't it? What you want to know for? Whatever it is, I'm not able to do it now, am I?

But as you're so naturally bellyaching to know, why, I've been in the ring.”

”So I presumed. Thank you,” said I, politely. ”And your name is John Flint, or Percy, or Algy, just as I choose. Percy and Algy are rather unusual names for a gentleman who has been in the ring, don't you think?”

”I think,” he snarled, turned suddenly ferocious, ”that I'm named what I dam' please to be named, and no squeals from skypilots about it, neither. Say! what you driving at, anyhow? If what I tell you ain't satisfying, suppose you slip over a moniker to suit yourself--and go away!”

”Oh! Suppose then,” said I, without taking my eyes from his, ”suppose, then, that I chose to call you--_Slippy McGee_?”

I am sure that only his bodily weakness kept him from flying at my throat. As it was, his long arms with the hands upon them outstretched like a beast's claws, shot out ferociously. His face contracted horribly, and of a sudden the sweat burst out upon it so blindingly that he had to put up an arm and wipe it away. For a moment he lay still, glaring, panting, helpless; while I stood and watched him unmoved.

”Ain't you the real little Sherlock Holmes, though?” he jeered presently. ”Got Old Sleuth skinned for fair and Nick Carter eating out of your hand! You d.a.m.ned skypilot!” His voice cracked. ”You're all alike! Get a man on his back and then put the screws on him!”

I made no reply; only a great compa.s.sion for this mistaken and miserable creature surged like a wave over my heart.

”For G.o.d's sake don't stand there staring like a bughouse owl!” he gritted. ”Well, what you going to do? Bawl for the bulls? What put you wise?”

”Help you to get well. No. I opened your bag--and looked up the newspapers,” I answered succinctly.

”Huh! A fat lot of good it'll do me to get well now, won't it? You think I ought to thank you for b.u.t.ting in and keeping me from dying without knowing anything about it, don't you? Well, you got another think coming. I don't. Ever hear of a pegleg in the ring? Ever hear of a one-hoofed dip! A long time I'd be Slippy McGee playing cat-and-mouse with the bulls, if I had to leave some of my legs home when I needed them right there on the job, wouldn't I? Oh, sure!”

”And was it,” I wondered, ”such a fine thing to be Slippy McGee, flying from the police, that one should lament his--er--disappearance?”

His eyes widened. He regarded me with pity as well as astonishment.

”Didn't you read the papers?” he wondered in his turn. ”There don't many travel in _my_ cla.s.s, skypilot! Why, I haven't _got_ any equals--the best of them trail a mile behind. Ask the bulls, if you want to know about Slippy McGee! And I let the happy dust alone. Most dips are dopes, but I was too slick; I cut it out. I knew if the dope once gets you, then the bulls get next. Not for Slippy. I've kept my head clear, and that's how I've muddled theirs. They never get next to anything until I've cleaned up and dusted. Why, honest to G.o.d, I can open any box made, easy as easy, just like I can put it all over any bull alive! That is,” a spasm twisted his face and into his voice crept the acute anguish of the artist deprived of all power to create, ”that is, I could--until I made that last getaway on a freight, and this happened.”

”I am sorry,” said I soothingly, ”that you have lost your leg, of course. But better to lose your leg than your soul, my son. Why, how do you know--”

He writhed. ”Can it!” he implored. ”Cut it out! Ain't I up against enough now, for G.o.d's sake? Down and out--and nothing to do but have my soul curry-combed and mashfed by a skypilot with _both_ his legs and _all_ his mouth on him! Ain't it h.e.l.l, though? Say, you better send for the cops. I'd rather stand for the pen than the preaching.

What'd you do with my bag, anyway?”

”But I really have no idea of preaching to you; and I would rather not send for the police--afterwards, when you are better, you may do so if you choose. You are a free agent. As for your bag, why--it is--it is--in the keeping of the Church.”

”Huh!” said he, and twisted his mouth cynically. ”Huh! Then it's good-bye tools, I suppose. I'm no churchmember, thank G.o.d, but I've heard that once the Church gets her clamps on anything worth while all h.e.l.l can't pry her loose.”

Now I don't know why, but at that, suddenly and inexplicably, as if I had glimpsed a ray of light, I felt cheered.