"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?" "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."