as he
informed with that new spirit brooding upon the face of all the
waters, a spirit that for want of a better name one might call the
Race Conscience.

It was this last aspect of the boy's character that amazed and
interested John Flint, who was himself too shrewd not to divine the
sincerity, even the commonsense, of what Laurence called "applied
Christianity." Altruism--and Slippy McGee! He listened with a puzzled
wonder.

"I wish," he grumbled to Laurence, "that you'd come off the roof. It
gives a fellow stiff neck rubbering up at you!"

"I'd rather stay up--the air's better, and you can see so much
farther," said Laurence. And he added hospitably: "There's plenty of
room--come on up, yourself!"

"With one leg?" sarcastically.

"And two eyes," said the boy. "Come on up--the sky's fine!" And he
laughed into the half-suspicious face.

The gimlet eyes bored into him, and the frank and truthful eyes met
them unabashed, unwavering, with a something in them which made the
other blink.

"When I got pitched into this burg," said the lame man thoughtfully,
"I landed all there--except a leg, but I never carried my brains in my
legs. I hadn't got any bats in my belfry. But I'm getting 'em. I'm
getting 'em so bad that when I hear some folks talk bughouse these
days it pretty near listens like good sense to me. Why, kid, I'm nut
enough now to dangle over the edge of believing you know what you're
talking about!"

"Fall over: I _know_ I know what I'm talking about," said Laurence
magnificently.

"I'm double-crossed," said John Flint, soberly and sadly, "Anyway I
look at it--" he swept the horizon with a wide-flung gesture, "it's
bugs for mine. I began by grannying bugs for _him_," he tossed his
head bull-like in my direction, "and I stand around swallowing hot
air from _you_--" He glared at Laurence, "and what's the result? Why,
that I've got bugs in the bean, that's what! Think of me licking an
all-day sucker a kid dopes out! _Me!_ Oh, he--venly saints!" he
gulped. "Ain't I the nut, though?"

"Well, supposing?" said Laurence, laughing. "Buck up! You _could_ be a
bad egg instead of a good nut, you know!"

John Flint's eyes slitted, then widened; his mouth followed suit
almost automatically. He looked at me.

"Can you beat it?" he wondered.

"Beating a bad egg would be a waste of time I wouldn't be guilty of,"
said I amusedly. "But I hope to live to see the good nut grow into a
fine tree."

"Do your damnedes