"Goodness! it's dark," he said half aloud.
"Isn't it though?" whispered a voice right behind him.
If Billy had been a wax figure on a pivot he could not have turned around quicker than he did—and then when he had turned he was sorry that he had, for looking into his face was a great, white flabby head on a long, wavery body. It did not seem to have any eyes, and yet Billy felt them looking into his. It did not seem to have any mouth, and yet Billy had heard it speak.
"Wha-wha-what d-did you say?" he asked in a quavering voice; and he distinctly felt each separate hair on his head grow stiff as a poker and his cap rise a couple of inches from his crown.
"I said it was dark. What's the matter, do you stammer?"
"N-not usually," said Billy, trying to set his teeth and stop the tune they were chattering.
"Then I wish you'd stop—it's very annoying," said the figure, chuckling to himself.
By a great effort Billy got his lower jaw under control and said:
"Who are you? Your manner is familiar, but I don't recognize your face."