"I've heard that afore, sir," said Mr. Thompson, impressively. "Never knowed the truth o' it, though."
"True enough, Mr. Thompson," said the Old Man. "Sirpints has no use for sand. Worries 'em, as you might say."
"I've always understood, sir," said Mr. MacFarlane, whose humor was apt to take a pragmatical turn, "that it's only one sort o' sirpint what's shy o' sand."
The Old Man eyed the second mate sullenly.
"O' course it is," he said, "and that's the on'y sort they've got on the Island o' San Pedro. The long, round-bellied sort, as don't bite but squeeges."
"And swallers yer?" said Mr. Thompson.
"And swallers yer. Pythons, I think they're called, or am I thinkin' o' boar constrictors?"
"Pythons, sir," said Mr. MacFarlane. "What swallows a bullock as easy as it swallows a baby."
"Yes, that's right." The Old Man turned to grin at the boy, but there was pathos in his voice. "Sailor, my bye, you must keep out o' the trees. Promise me, Sailor, you'll keep out o' the trees."
The boy had to hold on by the table. The laughter that rang in his ears could only have one meaning. He knew that the Old Man with the drink in him would be as good as his word. Suddenly, by a queer trick of the mind, Henry Harper was again a newsboy crying, "'Orrible Crime on the 'Igh Seas," along the streets of Blackhampton.