aken and
miserable creature surged like a wave over my heart.

"For God'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 butting 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_ class, 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 God, 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 God'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 hell, 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--afterward