ngerous.

"Friend," said I, "we do not as a rule seek information about the
guests in these rooms. We do not have to; they explain themselves. I
should never question your assertion that your name is Flint, and I
sincerely hope it is Flint; but--there are reasons why I must and do
ask you for certain definite information about yourself."

The hand lying upon the coverlet balled into a fist.

"If John Flint's not fancy enough for you," he suggested truculently,
"suppose you call me Percy? Some peach of a moniker, Percy, ain't it?"

"Percy?"

"Sure, Percy," he grinned impudently. "But if you got a grouch against
Percy, can it, and make me Algy. _I_ don't mind. It's not _me_
beefing about monikers; it's you."

"I am also," said I, regarding him steadily and ignoring his
flippancy, "I am also obliged to ask you what is your occupation--when
you are not stealing rides?"

"Looks like it might be answering questions just now, don't it? What
you want to know for? Whatever it is, I'm not able to do it now, am I?
But as you're so naturally bellyaching to know, why, I've been in the
ring."

"So I presumed. Thank you," said I, politely. "And your name is John
Flint, or Percy, or Algy, just as I choose. Percy and Algy are rather
unusual names for a gentleman who has been in the ring, don't you
think?"

"I think," he snarled, turned suddenly ferocious, "that I'm named what
I dam' please to be named, and no squeals from skypilots about it,
neither. Say! what you driving at, anyhow? If what I tell you ain't
satisfying, suppose you slip over a moniker to suit yourself--and go
away!"

"Oh! Suppose then," said I, without taking my eyes from his, "suppose,
then, that I chose to call you--_Slippy McGee_?"

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 mist