The sharp voice of Wolf Larsen aroused me.
"What the hell are you up to ?" he was demanding.
I had strayed forward where the sailors were painting, and I came to myself to find my advancing foot on the verge of overturning a paint-pot.
"Sleep-walking, sunstroke,--what ?" he barked.
"No; indigestion," I retorted, and continued my walk as if nothing untoward had occurred..