“You talk like White-horse Fred, too. But if you hain’t him you’re where you’ve got no business to be, and you’ll never get away, nuther.”
Smirker raised his revolver and pointed it at the boy’s breast. Julian, faint with terror, turned away his head and held his breath in suspense; but the stranger never flinched so much as a hair’s breadth.
“Don’t do anything rash,” said he calmly. “I have told you who I am not, and now you had better ask me who I am.”
“I don’t care who you are. You’re a dead man.”
“And you will be another in less than an hour,” replied the boy, without the least sign of alarm. “My Uncle Reginald Mortimer’s servant is close behind me. He will know that I came in here, and if I don’t go out again he will also know what has become of me.”
Smirker lowered his revolver, and falling back a step or two, stared blankly at the speaker, and then at our hero. The astonishment his face exhibited was fully reflected in Julian’s. The latter’s terror had all given way to surprise. He forgot Smirker and his revolver, the danger of his situation, and every thing else except the last few words the stranger had uttered: “My Uncle Reginald Mortimer.” Who was this fellow who was going about claiming Julian’s relative as his own?
“You have concluded not to shoot me, haven’t you?” asked the boy, whose coolness and courage were wonderful to behold.
“Who are you?” demanded Smirker.
“My name is Julian Mortimer. I am a stranger here, having but just arrived from the States. I came out this morning to take a ride, and it seems I have got into a place where I am not wanted. I beg pardon for my intrusion, and will thank you to open that door and let me out.”