“I said miasma, chills, and fever. That’s what would befall us should we remain here for a night. Beyond,” and he pointed to the hill that rose on the other side of the valley, “we shall doubtless find a place for the tent. However, we may as well rest here a bit, and I spy a seat over there which I propose to occupy.”
Saying this he cast aside his knapsack and rifle, then walked ahead a few yards and to one side, where he dropped upon what appeared to be a mass of twisted vine, as large as the limbs of the average tree.
The instant that Ferguson sank into the seat, Hope-Jones, who had been looking ahead curiously, let fall everything that he had in hand or on his back, and springing from Harvey’s side with a bound, ran as if on a race-course to the side of his friend, whom he seized by the collar and not only lifted to an upright position, but threw with all the strength he possessed to the ground, by the path side, and ended by catching him by the legs and dragging him some distance.
Ferguson was very quick-tempered, and the moment he jumped to his feet he darted at his companion with his fist clenched, roaring out at the top of his voice:—
“I’ll fix you! What do you mean? That wasn’t any joke.”
Harvey had run up, and he sprang between the young men, wondering what had caused this; and a glance at Hope-Jones’s face surprised him the more, for it was pale as that of a corpse, whereas Ferguson’s was red, and he was blowing with indignation.
“I’ll teach you!” he repeated. “Get out of the way, Harvey.”
But Hope-Jones had found his voice by this time, and instead of resenting his friend’s language he gasped: “It’s a boa! It’s a boa!”
“What’s a boa?” and Ferguson glanced around.
“You sat down on a boa! It’s coiled up over there!”