"Parson?"

"Well?"

"Why--er--come in a bit to-night, will you? That is, if you've got
time. And look here: don't you get the notion in your bean I'm just
some little old two-by-four guy of a yegg or some poor nut of a dip.
I'm _not_. Why, I've been the whole show _and_ manager besides. Yep,
I'm Slippy McGee himself."

He paused, to let this sink into my consciousness. I must confess that
I was more profoundly impressed than even he had any idea of. And
then, magnanimously, he added: "You're sure some white man, parson."

"Thank you, John Flint," said I, with due modesty.

Heaven knows why I should have been pleased and hopeful, but I was. My
guest was a criminal; he hadn't shown the slightest sign of
compunction or of shame; instead, he had betrayed a brazen pride. And
yet--I felt hopeful. Although I knew I was tacitly concealing a
burglar, my conscience remained clear and unclouded, and I had a calm
intuitive assurance of right. So deeply did I feel this that when I
went over to the church I placed before St. Stanislaus a small lamp
full of purest olive oil, which is expensive. I felt that he deserved
some compensation for hiding that package under his sheaf of lilies.

The authorities of our small town knew, of course, that another
forlorn wretch was being cared for at the Parish House. But had not
the Parish House sheltered other such vagabonds? The sheriff saw no
reason to give himself the least concern, beyond making the most