Jack Ready uttered a groan and dropped down on his chair, his mouth seeming puckered and drawn up.
“Death,” he said thickly, and with a great effort, “I shall welcome as sweet relief! Let it come!”
“Bring the stomach-pump!” thundered the master.
Somebody came rushing from another room with a queer-looking arrangement in his hands. Another fellow brought a huge bucket. A rubber tube was thrust into Ready’s mouth, while he was held and kept from struggling by half a dozen persons.
“Work fast if you hope to save his life!” shouted the master. “Even now the poison seems working upon him! He is turning black in the face! He is about to have convulsions! If he dies, we are in an awful scrape!”
Everybody seemed wildly excited. They packed about the chair upon which Ready was being held, climbing upon each other’s shoulders to get a good look at him.
“How fearfully pale he is about the mouth!”
“See his eyes glare!”
“He is frothing!”
“The poison is griping him!”