"Yes, sar, they always cry out for blood.

It's all they've got to live on.

They drink it like you and me drink coffee or rum.

It's terrible to hear them in the night." "Why, you don't mean to say you've heard them drinking it, Tom," I asked.

"That's all nonsense." "They'll drink any kind,--any they can get hold of,--chickens' or pigs' or cows'; you can hear them any night near the slaughterhouse." And Tom lowered his voice.