"A satyr?" I repeated, thinking swiftly, for really I did not want to
cause affront. "Oh! A satyr is a fellow who runs loose in the woods.
That's you, isn't it?"
He was looking in the fire, and presently he began to nod.
"I reck'n it air; yes, I reck'n it air."
"But you've another name," I went on; "what is that?"
"Jeff Angel."
"That doesn't suit," I made bold to answer. "Satyr is much nicer than
Angel. Where do you live, pray?"
"Anywhur; nowhur. Jis' use 'roun' th' country, eat'n' 'n' sleep'n' fust
one place 'n' 'nother."
Feeling cramped, I now reclined upon my elbow with my head away from the
fire. In this position my companion was invisible.
"Why did you come here to-night?" I resumed, pulling leisurely on my
briar-root, and noting idly that the stars had become much thicker.
"I's goin' to sleep in th' shack," was the prompt reply. "Lots 'n' lots
o' times I've slep' thur."
"And now I've rooted you out. I'm sorry."
"'Tain't wuth worryin' 'bout. I'll go on to th' P'int d'reckly."