"If it's a joke, suck the marrow out of it yourself," said he sourly. "It don't listen so horrible funny to me. And you haven't peeped yet about what you're going to do. I'm waiting to hear. I'm real interested."
"Why, I really don't know yet," said I, still cheerfully. "Suppose we wait and see? Here you are, safe and harmless enough for the present. And God is good; perhaps He knows that you and I may need each other more than you and the police need each other—who can tell? I should simply set myself strictly to the task of getting entirely well, if I were you—and let it go at that."
He appeared to reflect; his forehead wrinkled painfully.
"Devil-dodger," said he, after a pause, "are you just making a noise with your face, or is that on the level?"
"That's on the level."
His hard and suspicious eyes bored into me. And as I held his glance, 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.