“Oh, that’s nothing,” said the mate, taking a fresh grip. “I know I gave it a death wound. Come along, lay hold, you’re not afraid of a snake?”
Two of the men came up rather unwillingly, and, seizing hold together, they gave a sharp drag and drew it out, writhing and twining still, and beating its bleeding head upon the white deck.
“Shall I give it another shot?” cried Oliver excitedly.
“Waste of a good cartridge, sir,” said the mate. “It is nearly dead now. Muscular contractions, that’s all.”
“Ahoy! Hi! Look out!”
“Oh, murder!” shouted someone.
“Why didn’t you speak sooner, mate?” cried another from where he lay close up under the bulwarks. For the wounded serpent had suddenly lashed out with its tail, and flogged two of the men over with its violent blows.
“I say, sir,” said the first man, “hadn’t I better cut his muscular contractions off with a haxe afore he clears the deck?”
“No, no, Smith, don’t do that,” cried Oliver, “you would spoil its skin.”
“Well, sir, but if he don’t, he’ll spoil our’n,” said the sitting man.