"Oh, just what I say. You can’t see red like me without being a more dangerous cuss than you mean to be. I’d have got into trouble sometime, even if I hadn’t done this." Before Bob could find a response Teddy went on: "I suppose you think that because I don’t say anything about Flynn I haven’t got him on my mind. Well, you’re wrong." "Oh, I didn’t think that." "But what _can_ I say? I think and think and think, and then begin thinking again. So that," he jerked out, "that’s a reason, too." "A reason for what, Teddy?" He answered obliquely. "I can’t keep up that kind of thinking. I’ll go crazy if I do. I’d rather be sent to where I can get another point of view. I don’t care what kind of point of view it is, so long as it isn’t this one. If I could come face to face with Flynn, I believe I could make him understand. Do you suppose there’s any chance of that?" It was inevitable that, in the long run, speculative questions should lead them farther still. "What do you suppose God is?" Teddy said, unexpectedly, one day. Bob smiled. "Ask me something easier." "But you must have some idea." "I’m not sure that I have." "Don’t you believe in God? I should have thought that you’d be the kind of cuss who would." "I don’t know that you can call it believing. It’s more like—like having a kind of instinct—helped out by a little thinking." "Have I got the instinct?" "Can’t you tell that yourself?" "If I told you you’d howl." "No, I shouldn’t. Go to it." Teddy laughed sheepishly, as if he had ventured to peer into secrets which were none of his business. "I’ll tell you the way God seems to me—it’s all come to me while I’ve been in there." He nodded toward the cells. "I don’t seem to get him as a great big man, the way the chaplain says he is. He’s all right, the chaplain, only he don’t seem to know anything about God. He can gas away to beat the band about law, and society, and the good of the community, and hell to pay when you don’t respect them; but when it comes to God—it’s nix." "Well, what do you make out for yourself?" "I haven’t made it out exactly. It’s as if some great big hand had pulled aside a curtain—but it’s a curtain that I didn’t know was there. See?" "Yes, I see. And what does it show you?" "That’s the funny part of it. I can’t tell you what it shows me. I don’t exactly see it; I only know—mind you, I’m just telling you how it seems to me—I only know that it’s God." "But I suppose, if you know that it’s God, you have an idea of what it’s like?"