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From violent agitation, Martine unconsciously
shook the figure outlined in the blanket roughly, as he asked,
"What's your name?"
"Yankee Blank, doggone yer! Kyant you wake a feller 'thout yankin'
'im out o' baid? What yer want?"
"Great God!" muttered Hobart, tottering back to his seat beside
his sleeping cousin, "was there ever such a horrible, mocking
suggestion of one man in another? Yankee Blank--what a name!
Southern accent and vernacular, yet Nichol's voice! Such
similarity combined with such dissimilarity is like a nightmare.
Of course it's not Nichol. He was killed nearly two years ago. I'd
be more than human if I could wish him back now; but never in my
life have I been so shocked and startled. This apparition must
account for itself in the morning."
But he could not wait till morning; he could not control himself
five minutes. He felt that he must banish that horrible semblance
of Nichol from his mind by convincing himself of its absurdity.
He waited a few moments in order to compose his nerves, and then
returned.


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