"Who are you?" demanded Hal.
"Nikol."
"Nikol what?"
The man did not reply, and Hal surveyed him critically. He was at least thirty-five years of age, could not have been an inch more than four feet in height, and his long, knotted arms, apparently as strong as a gorilla's, reached almost to the ground, where his huge hand clasped and unclasped nervously. Involuntarily Hal shuddered.
"Must be as strong as an ox," the lad muttered. "Lucky for Stubbs he kicked at the right time and happened to land."
"What's your last name?" the lad demanded again.
"Haven't any," was the reply.
"What are you, an Albanian?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing here?"