Oliver caught himself, licked dry lips, and was gazing in horror at two bleeding, jagged incisions in his wrist. The girl, with a scream of comprehension, darted toward him. He balanced himself and smiled grimly as she grabbed his arm with shaking hands.
"Got me," he said, "the son-of-a-gun! And I'd have stuck my hand right back for another dose if he hadn't rattled."
Jessamy grabbed him by both shoulders and tried to force him to the ground.
"Sit down and keep quiet!" she ordered, sternly, her nerves now firm and steady, her face white and determined. "No, not that way!"
She grasped him under the arms and with the strength of a young Amazon slued him about as if he had been a sack of flour.
Deftly she bound his handkerchief about his arm, drawing it taut with all her strength. Something found its way into his left hand.
"Drink that!" she commanded. "All of it. Pour it down!"
Then her lips sought the flaming wound; and she clamped her white teeth in his flesh and began sucking out the poison.
At intervals she raised her head for breath and to spit out the deadly fluid.
"Drink!" she would urge then. "And don't worry. Not a chance in the world of your being any the worse after I get through with you."