Disturbed anew by these fresh arrivals, the reptile shot up his head with an ugly hiss. The hood was inflated, and waved to and fro wickedly, as the great coil dragged heavily over the ground.
“There! Now you can have him!” cried Fred excitedly, as Blachland stooped and picked up a couple of large stones. These, however, he immediately dropped.
“No. Let him go,” he said. “He wants to get away. He won’t interfere with us.”
“But kill him, Mr Blachland. Aren’t you going to kill him?” urged the boy.
“No. I never kill a snake if I can help it. Because of something that once happened to me up-country.”
“So! What was it?” said the youngster, with half his attention fixed regretfully on the receding reptile, which, seeing the coast clear, was rapidly making itself scarce.
“That’s something of a story—and it isn’t the time for telling it now.”
But a dreadful suspicion crossed the unsophisticated mind of the boy. Was it possible that Blachland was afraid? It did not occur to him that a man who had shot lions in the open was not likely to be afraid of an everyday ringhals—not at the time, at least. Afterwards he would think of it.
They went back to where they had been sitting before, Fred chattering volubly. But he could not sit still for long, any more than he had been able to before, and presently he was off again.
“You are wondering why I let that snake go,” said Blachland presently. “Did you think I was afraid of it?”