"Mr. George Albert," called Eustace, "Mr. Billy won't like your flying around those trees. You're supposed to stay in your tank."
"I was only getting a little air and talking to the birds," I said.
"You can talk to the birds?" asked Eustace.
"Cannot anyone?"
"I can, a little," said Eustace. "I didn't know anyone else could."
But when Billy Wilkins returned and heard the report that I had been flying about, I was put in the snake house, in a cage that was tightly meshed top and sides. My cellmate was a surly python named Pete.
"See you stay on that side," said Pete. "You're too big for me to swallow. But I might try."
"There is something bothering you, Pete," I said. "You have a bad disposition. That can come only from a bad digestion or a bad conscience."
"I have both," said Pete. "The first is because I bolt my food. The second is because—well, I forget the reason, but it's my conscience."
"Think hard, Pete. Why have you a bad conscience?"