"But haven't you ever been caught? Didn't you ever have a Norwegian come up and try to talk to you in his own language?"
"Yes," said Anak, laughing, "and mighty embarrassing it was, too."
"What did you do?"
"Faith, I opened upon him in old Irish. You ought to have seen the fellow stare. I shrugged my shoulders, and said I, 'You speak bad Norwegian,' and the crowd believed me. He slunk away, and that's the way I got over that."
"What's your real name, Anak?"
Anak looked about him guardedly, and finding that no one was within earshot, he answered, "Tom O'Connor, but don't give me away, Robert!"
"I don't believe I could, Anak," said the boy, laughing.
Anak joined in the laugh, and Robert continued, "When did you get your growth? I mean, how old were you?"
"I kept on growing till I was twenty-one. When I was sixteen I was six feet high, and everybody thought I was through, but I kept on till I reached seven and a half feet, and then was tall enough to show."
"How about that eight feet, Anak?"