no clue to his whereabouts.  He was supposed to be still in hiding in Atlanta, though as he had no known confederates and always worked alone and unaided, the police were at a loss for information.  The man had simply vanished, after his wont, as if the earth had opened and swallowed him.  The papers gave rather full accounts of some of his past exploits, from which one gathered that Slippy McGee was a very noted personage in his chosen field.  I sat for a long time staring at those papers, and my thoughts were uneasy ones.  What should I do?

I presently decided that I could and must question my guest.  So far he 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 flippancy, “I am also obliged to ask you what is your occupation—­when you are not stealing rides?”

“Looks like it might be answering questions just now, don’t it?  What you want to know for?  Whatever it is, I’m not able to do it now, am I?  But as you’re so naturally bellyaching to know, why, I’ve been in the ring.”

“So I presumed.  Thank you,” said I, politely.  “And your name is John Flint, or Percy, or Algy, just as I choose.  Percy and Algy are rather unusual names for a gentleman who has been in the ring, don’t you think?”

“I think,” he snarled, turned suddenly ferocious, “that I’m named what I dam’ please to be named, and no squeals from skypilots about it, neither.  Say! what you driving at, anyhow?  If what I tell you ain’t satisfying, suppose you slip over a moniker to suit yourself—­and go away!”

“Oh!  Suppose then,” said I, without taking my eyes from his, “suppose, then, that I chose to call you—­Slippy McGee?”