“You do it, then. I never could hit that target.”
“I’ll try,” said Ferguson, clenching his teeth; and he crawled quickly into the tent, and, returning with the weapon, threw himself flat on the grass in the position he had taken the evening before while aiming at the deer.
The light had grown, so that twigs on trees stood out plainly. They could see that the snake was of a brown-green, the head very flat, and in and out between the jaws moved a thin tongue, vibrating as does a tightly stretched string that has been pulled with the fingers.
“Why don’t you fire?” whispered Hope-Jones, who had thrown himself down beside Ferguson.
“Wait. I can’t hit that. No one could.”
The day was growing fast. Harvey slept without moving, and above his face, no nearer and no farther away, moved the flat head with pendulum-like regularity.
All at once, a ray of light glanced from the rising sun through the trees and fell on the face of the sleeping boy—a line of golden light, reaching from forehead to chin. Harvey moved. That instant, the flat head ceased swaying, the portion of the body free from the tree arched itself like the neck of a swan and the snake was immovable, poised to strike. But before the fangs could be plunged into the victim, a rifle rang out, and the snake fell forward, writhing, upon the neck and shoulders of the boy, and he, at a bound, freed himself from the blankets and started for the woods on a run, yelling: “I’m shot! I’m shot!”
Hope-Jones and Ferguson followed and caught up with him at the edge of the brook. Beads of perspiration were standing out on his forehead, and his face was pale.
“Where are you hurt, Harvey?” asked Ferguson, anxiously.
He looked at them in amazement, for as a fact he had just awakened. The yell and the exclamation were only part of a nightmare, which had been caused by the discharge of the firearm.