“I must have been,” he replied, looking at one of his arms, and smiling to see how thin it was. “But what island do you mean? not Blackwell’s Island, I hope?”
“It’s your grandfather’s island. Don’t you remember about our being wrecked here?”
“Well, since I don’t remember ever having gone on board a ship, I naturally don’t remember being wrecked,” he answered. “And then I never heard before that my grandfather had an island. May I ask whereabouts this island is?”
“I only wish I knew,” I replied. “It’s somewheres in the South Pacific; that’s all I know about it.”
“Have you ever been in a lunatic asylum, my young friend?” asked Mr. Crusoe, after thinking for a minute or two; “or is this place an asylum?”
“I don’t know anything about asylums, Mr. Crusoe,” said I. “This island is a coral island, and not an asylum—that is, as far as I know.”
“I’ll only ask one more question,” said he. “Tell me why you call me Mr. Crusoe?”
“Because that’s your name.”
“That will do,” he answered. “I’ll try to sleep a little now. I thought my name was Robert H. Monroe, but I suppose I was wrong.”
Mr. Crusoe turned over, after trying two or three times, which showed that he was stronger than he had been, and presently went to sleep.