“Not here? Perhaps he has gone to the brook.”
“Yes; probably for a bath. I guess I’ll follow him.”
They lazily drew on their knickerbockers, laced their shoes, and went outside, yawning as they stepped on the grass, for the sleep was still in their eyes. The next instant their attitude changed—from heavy with drowsiness every sense became alert, every muscle contracted and their nerves throbbed, their cheeks from red turned ashen pale. For Ferguson had clutched Hope-Jones’s arm and had whispered, “Look!”
A hundred yards from where they stood lay Harvey, sound asleep, his head resting in the fork of a fallen tree and his face upturned. Two feet above this upturned face—a handsome, manly face—something was waving to and fro like a naked branch throbbed by the wind; only this something moved with a more undulating motion. It was a snake. The body was coiled around the limb of the tree that rose from the fork, and the flat head and neck waved at right angles.
“Sh! It may strike if alarmed!”
Both men sank to their knees.
“What’s it waiting for?” whispered Hope-Jones.
“I don’t know.”
“What can we do? Shall I risk a shot?”
“No. Your gun would scatter and perhaps hit Harvey. We must try the rifle.”