"Jist the seemptoms," said McKeel, as he quietly filled the little instrument, which he still held in his hand, with a drop of liquid ammonia.
"Noo, Daavid," he said, "rax me the brandy bottle, an' pit it doon beside me; then hold Lanky's leg while I mak' the injection."
David did as he was told. His father pinched the leg, just above the marks of the snake-bite; then he inserted the point of the instrument into the flesh.
Lanky jumped as if he had been shot, and capered about the room. The injector fell from the old man's hand. An oath nearly slipped off his tongue, but he caught it back just in time, and said:
"Dog-on it, man! you're deed as a sheep in a butcher's shop if ye'll no be still till I get the ammonia inside o' ye!"
"Brandy," said Lanky faintly, sinking again on the sofa.
Mrs. McKeel poured out a tumblerful, and handed it to David, who put it to Lanky's lips. The liquor went down his throat with a gurgle like storm-water into a culvert.
"I feel better," he said faintly; "that did me good!"
"Don't you lippen to brandy," said McKeel, "it never cured a true case o' snake-bite. You jist let me inject a drop o' ammonia into ye, there's a good fallow! It's the new pan-a-kee."
"Panacea! father," said David.