"Then it must have been twenty-four feet long, Hal, for I've shown you one of twenty-two."
"I didn't measure him, father; he wouldn't wait," said the boy, laughing; "but he was a monster."
"You threw something at it, I suppose?"
"Yes, a big piece out of the rockery—and hit him on the back. It sounded like hitting a leather trunk."
"Humph!" said Mr. Kenyon. "Boys are boys all the world round, it seems. Here have you been in Siam almost ever since you were born, and you act just in the same way as an English boy at home."
"Act! How did I act?"
"Began throwing stones. Bit of human nature, I suppose, learnt originally of the monkeys. So you hit the brute?"
"Yes, father, and he went off with a rush!"
"Looking for its breakfast, I suppose. Let's go and get ours."
Harry Kenyon required no second invitation, for the pangs of hunger, forgotten in the excitement, returned with full force, and in a few minutes father and son were seated at table in the well-furnished half-Eastern, half-English-looking home, enjoying a well-cooked breakfast, served on delicate china from the neighbouring country, and with glistening silver tea and coffee pot well worn with long polishing, for they were portions of a set of old family plate which had been sent out to the fairly wealthy merchant trading with England from the East.