The color of temper had left my face. I eyed him, slightly smiling, munching my sandwich quietly.
“Captain Michael Greaves,” said I, “I am no half-hanged man.”
On hearing the name I gave him he started violently; then, catching hold of the edge of the hammock, so tilted it as to nearly capsize me, while he thrust his face close to mine.
“What was that you said?” cried he.
“I am no hanged man.”
“You pronounced my name,” he cried, continuing to hold by the hammock and swinging with it as the ship rolled.
“I know your name,” I replied.
“Have you ever sailed with me?”
“No.”
“How does it happen that you know me?”