Zebulon Kingsley was distinctly not asleep. His eyes were like
fire-balls, and he stared straight at me without one flicker of the lids
or crinkle of the countenance to show that he recognized me. His face
was gray and haggard. He was like a stone man. If he had given one hint
by his expression that he knew me I would have pushed myself in beside
him, I reckon, and would have come across with my little story. But that
frozen face was too much for me. I was doing a lot of guessing about his
state of mind, and my guesses warned me to stay away from him just then.