" said I, smiling, "_You_ are one of my twins."

"Me?" He reflected. "Maybe half of me might be, parson," he agreed,
"but it's not safe for a skypilot to be caught owning a twin like the
other half."

"I'm pinning my faith to _my_ half," said I, serenely.

"Now, why?" he asked, with sudden fierceness. "I turn it over and over
and over: it looks white on the outside, but I can't to save me figure
out _why_ you're doing it. Parson, _what_ have you got up your
sleeve?"

"Nothing but my arm. What should you think?"

"I don't know what to think, and that's the straight of it. What's
your game, anyhow? What in the name of God are you after?"

"Why, I think," said I, "that in the name of God I'm after--that other
You that's been tucked away all these years, and couldn't get born
until a Me inside mine, just like himself, called him to come out and
be alive."

He pondered this in silence. Then:

"I'll take your word for it," said he. "Though if anybody'd ever told
me I'd be eating out of a parson's hand, I'd have pushed his face in
for him. Yep, I'm Fido! _Me!_"

"At least you growl enough," said I, tartly.

He eyed me askance.

"Have I got to lick hands?" he snarled.

I walked away, without a reply; through my shoulder-blades I could
feel him glaring after me. He followed, hobbling:

"Parson!"

"Well?"

"If I'm not the sort that licks hands I'm not the sort that bites 'em,
neither. I'll tell you--it's this way: I--sort of get to chewing on
that infernal log of wood that's where my good leg used to grow
and--and splinters get into my temper--and I've _got_ to snarl or
burst wide open! You'd growl like the devil yourself, if you had to
try holding down my job for awhile, skypilot or no skypilot!"

"Why--I dare say I should," said I, contritely. "But," I added, after
a pause, "I shouldn't be any the better for it, should you think?"

"Not so you could notice," shortly. And after a moment he added, in an
altered voice: "Rule 1: Can the Squeal!"

I think he most honestly tried to. It was no easy task, and I have
seen the sweat start upon his forehead and his face go pale, when in
his eagerness he forgot for a moment the cruel fact that he could no
longer move as lightly as of old--and the crippled body, betraying
him, reminded him all too swiftly of his mistake.

The work saved him. For it is the heaven-sent sort of work, to those
ordained for it, that fills one's hours and leaves one eager for
further tas