“‘Eureka!’ Dr. Herschel shouted, springing to the side of Wing who lay gasping for breath, with every symptom of snake-bite poisoning.
“‘Thank you, Doctor,’ I said, ‘justice will neither call you a murderer nor that poor, accursed piece of flesh a felon.’
“He made no reply, only with finger on pulse remained immovable. An hour passed and still Dr. Herschel made no sign. Unable longer to endure the strain, I said, ‘Is he conscious?’
“‘No. Prepare me a hypodermic of strychnine sulphate gr. one-fortieth,’ handing me the instrument and bottle of tablets. This given, he again placed his fingers over Wing’s pulse. Wing was fast sinking into a state of coma and every breath drawn seemed shorter.
“‘Nitro-glycerine, quick!’ called the doctor.
“Again the syringe was filled and emptied. All night long we watched, and morning found poor Wing still alive. For a week he lay in a comatose condition, cruelly, to my way of thinking, kept alive by stimulants, and then delirium set in; mild at first, but growing wilder and wilder. Had I not known his abstemious habits, I should have pronounced his case delirium tremens. All the terrifying illusions, delusions and hallucinations were present, snakes, devils, enemies were after him. Shouts for help brought no assistance and at last, completely exhausted, he would crouch on the floor, a picture of abject terror. With the greatest difficulty we managed to force down sufficient food to keep him alive, each paroxysm leaving him weaker until finally he lapsed into a low fever that lasted for weeks. Dr. Herschel never left us.
“‘Doctor,’ I said to him one day as we stood together by our patient’s bedside, ‘those tubercles certainly look smaller!’
“‘And will look still smaller,’ was his calm reply.
“I started and took a close look; the feet were without one! My heart gave a great bound and then seemed to stop.
“‘There, my boy,’ said Dr. Herschel, ‘calm yourself! ‘Old Ninety-Nine’s’ cave contained a rarer treasure than money and jewels.’