“Better?” said Fitz peevishly.
“Yes, of course.”
“Why—Here, stop a moment. Who are you?”
“No doubt about it,” was the reply. “That’s the first time you have talked sensibly.”
“You be hanged!” said Fitz sharply.
But as he spoke it did not seem like his own voice, but as if somebody else had spoken in a weak, piping tone. He did not trouble himself about that, though, for his mind was beginning to be an inquiring one.
“Why don’t you answer?” he said. “Who are you? What’s your name?”
“Poole Reed.”
“Oh! Then how came you in my cabin?”
“Well,” said the lad, with a pleasant laugh, which made his rather plain face light up in the warm sunset glow and look almost handsome; not that that was wonderful, for a healthy, good-tempered boy’s face, no matter what his features, always has a pleasant look,—“I think I might say what are you doing in my cabin?”