"You have hit it!" exclaimed the child, with a suspicion of eagerness, not unmingled with surprise. "I did not mean to tell anyone; but since you are a man of science and I am on the point of death, you may as well know you have guessed the truth."
"Have I?" I said, more bewildered than ever.
"Yes. In all these years no one has suspected it. It has been carefully kept from outsiders. But now it would, perhaps, be childish folly to be reticent about it. It is the truth—the plain, literal truth—I have lived an odd life."
"How did it begin?" I asked, scarce knowing what I said or what I meant.
"You shall know all," said Willy. "I must begin before I was born—before I could begin packing, as you put it."
His breath came and went painfully. Overwrought with curiosity as I was, I experienced a pang of compunction.
"No, no; never mind," I said; "you have not the strength to speak much—you must not waste what you have."
"It can only cost me a few minutes of life—I can spare the time," he answered, almost peevishly.
Now that he had been strung up to speaking point, he seemed to resent my diminished interest.
I put the glass of barley and water to his lips, and forced him to moisten his throat.