a hint of wonder and amazement crept into his face.

"God A'mighty! I believe him!" he gasped. And then, as if ashamed of
that real feeling, he scowled.

"Say, if you're really on the level, I guess you'd better not be
flashing the name of Slippy McGee around promiscuous," he suggested
presently. "It won't do either you or me any good, see? And say,
parson,--forget Percy and Algy. How was I to know you'd be so white?
And look here: I did know a gink named John Flint, once. Only he was
called Reddy, because he'd got such a blazing red head and whiskers.
He's croaked, so he wouldn't mind me using his moniker, seeing it's
not doing him any good now."

"Let us agree upon John Flint," I decided.

"Help yourself," he agreed, equably.

Clélie, with wrath and disapproval written upon every stiffened line,
brought him his broth, which he took with a better grace than I had
yet witnessed. He even added a muttered word of thanks.

"It's funny," he reflected, when the yellow woman had left the room
with the empty bowl, "it's sure funny, but d'ye know, I'm lots easier
in my mind, knowing you know, and not having to think up a hard-luck
gag to hand out to you? I hate like hell to have to lie, except of
course when I need a smooth spiel for the cops. I guess I'll snooze a
bit now," he added, as I rose to leave the room. And as I reached the
door: