"I'm pinning my faith to my half," said I, serenely.
"Now, why?" he asked, with sudden fierceness. "I turn it over and over and over: it looks white on the outside, but I can't to save me figure out why you're doing it. Parson, what have you got up your sleeve?"
"Nothing but my arm. What should you think?"
"I don't know what to think, and that's the straight of it. What's your game, anyhow? What in the name of God are you after?"
"Why, I think," said I, "that in the name of God I'm after—that other You that's been tucked away all these years, and couldn't get born until a Me inside mine, just like himself, called him to come out and be alive."
He pondered this in silence. Then:
"I'll take your word for it," said he. "Though if anybody'd ever told me I'd be eating out of a parson's hand, I'd have pushed his face in for him. Yep, I'm Fido! Me!"
"At least you growl enough," said I, tartly.
He eyed me askance.
"Have I got to lick hands?" he snarled.