The stranger, who was a little man and evidently a gentleman, made no reply, but, seizing a chair, placed it exactly before me, sat down on it as he would have seated himself on a horse, rested his arms on the back, and stared me in the face.
“You are disposed to be facetious,” said I, smiling (for I never take offence without excessively good reason).
“Not at all, by no means,” said he, taking off his hat and throwing it recklessly on the floor. “You are Mr Rover, I presume?”
“The same, sir, at your service.”
“Are you? oh, that’s yet to be seen! Pray, is your Christian name Ralph?”
“It is,” said I, in some surprise at the coolness of my visitor.
“Ah! just so. Christian name Ralph, t’other name Rover—Ralph Rover. Very good. Age twenty-two yesterday, eh?”
“My birthday was yesterday, and my age is twenty-two. You appear to know more of my private history than I have the pleasure of knowing of yours. Pray, sir, may I—but, bless me! are you unwell?”
I asked this in some alarm, because the little man was rolling about in his seat, holding his sides, and growing very red in the face.
“Oh no! not at all; perfectly well—never was better in my life,” he said, becoming all at once preternaturally grave. “You were once in the Pacific—lived on a coral island—”