“Light a match!” yelled Tom. “I’m bit!”
“Bit!” cried the other boy. “What bit yer?”
“A snake!” shouted Tom. “A black snake! I felt him!”
“Where did he bite you?” demanded Dave, apparently much concerned.
“He’s bit me on the leg,” groaned Tom, in a voice of awful apprehension. “Strike a match, quick!”
“It couldn’t a been a snake,” cried Dave, trying hard to keep solemn.
“It was, I tell you,” insisted Tom. “This island is crowded with snakes. I felt ’im cold again me leg; gimme the match; gimme the match, quick!”
“It wuz a black snake,” he mourned, “an’ I’ll die, I know I will.”
“There’s no teeth marks on yours leg,” said Dave, holding a lighted match while Tom made a fevered examination. “You must a been dreamin’.”
“I wasn’t dreamin’,” protested Tom. “I felt something bite me. See,” he said in a voice of hollow despair, “here’s a mark on me leg—a red mark!”