had volunteered no information beyond the curt statement that his name
was John Flint and he was a hobo because he liked the trade. He had
been stealing a ride and he had slipped--and when he woke up we had
him and he hadn't his leg. And if some people knew how to be obliging
they'd make a noise like a hoop and roll away, so's other people could
pound their ear in peace, like that big stiff of a doctor ordered them
to do.

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 assertion 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