“But I really have no idea of preaching to you; and I would rather not send for the police—­afterwards, when you are better, you may do so if you choose.  You are a free agent.  As for your bag, why—­it is—­it is—­in the keeping of the Church.”

“Huh!” said he, and twisted his mouth cynically.  “Huh!  Then it’s good-bye tools, I suppose.  I’m no churchmember, thank God, but I’ve heard that once the Church gets her clamps on anything worth while all hell can’t pry her loose.”

Now I don’t know why, but at that, suddenly and inexplicably, as if I had glimpsed a ray of light, I felt cheered.

“Why, that’s it exactly!” said I, smiling.  “Once the Church gets real hold of a thing—­or a man—­worth while, she holds on so fast that all hell can’t pry her loose.  Won’t you try to remember that, my son!”

“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.

Clelie, with wrath and disapproval written upon every stiffened line, brought him his broth, which he took with a better grace than I had yet witnessed.  He even added a muttered word of thanks.

“It’s funny,” he reflected, when the yellow woman had left the room with the empty bowl, “it’s sure funny, but d’ye know, I’m lots easier in my mind, knowing you know, and not having to think up a hard-luck gag to hand out to you?  I hate like hell to have to lie, except of course when I need a smooth spiel for the cops.  I guess I’ll snooze a bit now,” he added, as I rose to leave the room.  And as I reached the door: