“What are you talkin' about,” demanded Atkins. “Be you crazy?”
“No-o. I'M not.”
“YOU'RE not! Do you mean that I am?”
“Well,” slowly, “I'm not an expert in such cases, but when a perfectly simple, commonplace question sets a chap to pounding and screaming and offering violence, then—well, it's either insanity or an attempt at insult, one or the other. I've given you the benefit of the doubt.”
He scratched a match on his heel and relit his pipe. The lightkeeper still stared, suspicious and puzzled. Then he drew a long breath.
“I—I didn't mean to insult you,” he stammered.
“Glad to hear it, I'm sure. If I were you, however, I should see a doctor for the other trouble.”
“And I ain't crazy, neither. I beg your pardon for hollerin' and grabbin' hold of you.”
“Granted.”
“Thank ye. Now,” hesitatingly, “would you mind tellin' me why you asked me if I was married?”