"Very well, then," said the Old Man with acerbity. "It was up to Andrews to do the will o' God. He said he'd not do it then, but he'd wait until the morning. I said, 'There's no time like the present,' but he was Scotch, and he was obstinate, an' the mornin' never come for Andrews. He began to rave in the night, as we all lay together on the sand, with the Chinaman in the middle, and at the screech o' dawn when I give him the knife, I see at once he was off his rocker." "Up the pole, sir?" asked Mr. MacFarlane, politely. "Yes, blast you," said the Old Man. "Don't you understand plain English? Bye, another bottle." As the boy's livid face was caught by the lamp on the table while he bent over it with the new bottle, the Old Man suddenly laughed. There was something in the boy's eyes that went straight to his heart. "By God!" he said, refilling his glass. "That's a good idea. We'll put Sailor here ashore on the Island o' San Pedro first thing in the morning. We will, so help me!" And the Old Man winked solemnly at Mr. Thompson and the second mate. Mr. Thompson smiled and the second mate laughed. The idea itself was humorous, and the Old Man's method of expressing it seemed to lend it point. "That's a good idea," said the Old Man, bringing his fist down so sharply that the brandy out of his glass slopped over on the tablecloth. "Sailor here shall be put ashore at sunrise on the Island of San Pedro. We'll never be able to make a man of him aboard the _Margaret Carey_. We'll see what the tigers and the lions and the wolves and hyenas 'll do with him on the Island o' San Pedro." "Sirpints, Cap'n?" inquired Mr. Thompson innocently, as he returned the look of his superior officer. "God bless me, yes, Mr. Thompson!" said the Old Man in a thrilling voice. "That's why you've got to keep out o' the trees. My advice to Sailor is--are ye attendin', young feller?--always sleep on sand. Sirpints won't face sand, and it's something to know that, Mr. Thompson, when you are all on your lonesome on the Island of San Pedro." "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."