I am sure that only his bodily weakness kept him from flying at my throat.  As it was, his long arms with the hands upon them outstretched like a beast’s claws, shot out ferociously.  His face contracted horribly, and of a sudden the sweat burst out upon it so blindingly that he had to put up an arm and wipe it away.  For a moment he lay still, glaring, panting, helpless; while I stood and watched him unmoved.

“Ain’t you the real little Sherlock Holmes, though?” he jeered presently.  “Got Old Sleuth skinned for fair and Nick Carter eating out of your hand!  You damned skypilot!” His voice cracked.  “You’re all alike!  Get a man on his back and then put the screws on him!”

I made no reply; only a great compassion for this mistaken and miserable creature surged like a wave over my heart.

“For God’s sake don’t stand there staring like a bughouse owl!” he gritted.  “Well, what you going to do?  Bawl for the bulls?  What put you wise?”

“Help you to get well.  No.  I opened your bag—­and looked up the newspapers,” I answered succinctly.

“Huh!  A fat lot of good it’ll do me to get well now, won’t it?  You think I ought to thank you for butting in and keeping me from dying without knowing anything about it, don’t you?  Well, you got another think coming.  I don’t.  Ever hear of a pegleg in the ring?  Ever hear of a one-hoofed dip!  A long time I’d be Slippy McGee playing cat-and-mouse with the bulls, if I had to leave some of my legs home when I needed them right there on the job, wouldn’t I?  Oh, sure!”

“And was it,” I wondered, “such a fine thing to be Slippy McGee, flying from the police, that one should lament his—­er—­disappearance?”

His eyes widened.  He regarded me with pity as well as astonishment.

“Didn’t you read the papers?” he wondered in his turn.  “There don’t many travel in my class, skypilot!  Why, I haven’t got any equals—­the best of them trail a mile behind.  Ask the bulls, if you want to know about Slippy McGee!  And I let the happy dust alone.  Most dips are dopes, but I was too slick; I cut it out.  I knew if the dope once gets you, then the bulls get next.  Not for Slippy.  I’ve kept my head clear, and that’s how I’ve muddled theirs.  They never get next to anything until I’ve cleaned up and dusted.  Why, honest to God, I can open any box made, easy as easy, just like I can put it all over any bull alive!  That is,” a spasm twisted his face and into his voice crept the acute anguish of the artist deprived of all power to create, “that is, I could—­until I made that last getaway on a freight, and this happened.”

“I am sorry,” said I soothingly, “that you have lost your leg, of course.  But better to lose your leg than your soul, my son.  Why, how do you know—­”

He writhed.  “Can it!” he implored.  “Cut it out!  Ain’t I up against enough now, for God’s sake?  Down and out—­and nothing to do but have my soul curry-combed and mashfed by a skypilot with both his legs and all his mouth on him!  Ain’t it hell, though?  Say, you better send for the cops.  I’d rather stand for the pen than the preaching.  What’d you do with my bag, anyway?”