“I guess something got me then,” muttered Washington.
His right cheek was red and swollen, and Leon saw the tell-tale bite; saw something else. He put his hand to the cheek and examined his finger-tips.
“Get me some whisky, will you?—about a gallon of it.”
He was obviously in great pain and sat rocking himself to and fro.
“Gosh! This is awful!” he groaned. “Never had any snake that bit like this!”
“You’re alive, my friend, and I didn’t believe you when you said you were snake-proof.”
Leon poured out a tumbler of neat whisky and held it to the American’s lips.
“Down with Prohibition!” murmured Washington, and did not take the glass from his lips until it was empty. “You can give me another dose of that—I shan’t get pickled,” he said.
He put his hand up to his face and touched the tiny wound gingerly.
“It is wet,” he said in surprise.