"You couldn't keep it, if you did land it--your sort can't. You know how it went before--the women and the sharks got it. There'd be always that same incentive to pull off just one more to keep you going--until you'd pulled yourself behind bars, and stayed there. And there's the drug-danger, too. If you escaped so far, it was because so far you had the strength to let drugs alone. But the drugs get you, sooner or later, do they not? Have you not told me over and over again that 'nearly all dips are dopes'? That first the dope gets you--and then the law? No. You can't pull off anything that won't pull you into hell. We have gone over this thing often enough, haven't we?" "No, we haven't. And I haven't had a chance to pull off anything--except leaves for bugs. _Me!_ I want to get my hand in once more, I tell you! I want to pull off a stunt that'll make the whole bunch of bulls sit up and bellow for fair--and I can do it, easy as easy. Think I've croaked, do they? And they can all snooze on their peg-posts, now I'm a stiff? Well, by cripes, I just want half of a half of a chance, and I'll show 'em Slippy McGee's good and plenty alive!" "Come out into the garden, my son, and feel that you are good and plenty alive. Come out into the free air. Hold on tight, a little while longer!" I laid my hand upon his shoulder compellingly, and although he glared at me, and ground his teeth, and lifted his lip, he came; unwillingly, swearing under his breath, he came. We tramped up and down the garden paths, up and down, and back again, his wooden peg making a round hole, like a hoofmark, in the earth. He stared down at it, spat savagely upon it, and swore horribly, but not too loudly. "I want to feel like a live man!" he gritted. "A live man, not a one-legged mucker with a beard like a Dutch bomb-thrower's, puttering about a skypilot's backyard on the wrong side of everything!" "Stick it out a little longer, John Flint; hold fast!" "Hold fast to what?" he demanded savagely. "To a bug stuck on a needle?" "Yes. And to me who trusts you. To Madame who likes you. To the dear child who put bug and needle into your hand because she knew it was good work and trusted your hand to do it. And more than all, to that other Me you're finding--your own true self, John Flint! Hold fast, hold fast!" He stopped and stared at me. "I'm believing him again!" said he, grievously. "I've been sat on while I was hot, and my number's marked on me, 23. I'm hoodooed, that's what!" Tramp, tramp, stump, stump, up and down, the two of us. "All right, devil-dodger," said he wearily, after a long sullen silence. "I'll stick it out a bit longer, to please you. You've been white--the lot of you. But look here--if I beat it some night ... with what I can find, why, I'm warning you: don't blame _me_--you're running your risks, and it'll be up to _you_ to explain!"