“Great snakes!” gasped Washington in amazement. “Then why don’t you tell the police?”
“The police know—now,” said Leon. “It isn’t snake-bite—it is nicotine poisoning.”
“How’s that?” asked the startled man, but Leon had his joke to himself.
After a consultation which had lasted most of the night they had brought Washington from Rath Hall, and on the way Leon hinted gently that the Three had a mission for him and hoped he would accept.
“You’re much too good a fellow to be put into an unnecessarily dangerous position,” he said; “and even if you weren’t, we wouldn’t lightly risk your blessed life; but the job we should ask you to do isn’t exactly a picnic.”
“Listen!” said Mr. Washington with sudden energy. “I don’t want any more snakes—not that kind of snake! I’ve felt pain in my time, but nothing like this! I know it must have been snake venom, but I’d like to meet the little wriggler who brews the brand that was handed to me, and maybe I’d change my mind about collecting him—alive!”
Leon agreed silently, and for the next few moments was avoiding a street car on one side, a baker’s cart on another, and a blah woman who was walking aimlessly in the road, apparently with no other intention than of courting an early death, this being the way of blah women.
“Phew!” said Mr. Washington, as the car skidded on the greasy road. “I don’t know whether you’re a good driver or just naturally under the protection of Providence.”
“Both,” said Leon, when he had straightened the machine. “All good drivers are that.”
Presently he continued: