“Bill, why is it that you are so gloomy? Why do you never speak to any one?”
Bill smiled slightly as he replied, “Why, I s’pose it’s because I hain’t got nothin’ to say!”
“That’s strange,” said I musingly. “You look like a man that could think, and such men can usually speak.”
“So they can, youngster,” rejoined Bill somewhat sternly; “and I could speak too if I had a mind to, but what’s the use o’ speakin’ here? The men only open their mouths to curse and swear, and they seem to find it entertainin’; but I don’t, so I hold my tongue.”
“Well, Bill, that’s true, and I would rather not hear you speak at all than hear you speak like the other men. But I don’t swear, Bill; so you might talk to me sometimes, I think. Besides, I’m weary of spending day after day in this way, without a single soul to say a pleasant word to. I’ve been used to friendly conversation, Bill, and I really would take it kind if you would talk with me a little now and then.”
Bill looked at me in surprise, and I thought I observed a sad expression pass across his sunburned face.
“An’ where have you been used to friendly conversation?” said Bill, looking down again into the sea. “Not on that Coral Island, I take it?”
“Yes, indeed,” said I energetically. “I have spent many of the happiest months in my life on that Coral Island;” and without waiting to be further questioned, I launched out into a glowing account of the happy life that Jack and Peterkin and I had spent together, and related minutely every circumstance that befell us while on the island.
“Boy, boy,” said Bill in a voice so deep that it startled me, “this is no place for you!”
“That’s true,” said I. “I am of little use on board, and I don’t like my comrades; but I can’t help it, and at any rate I hope to be free again soon.”