“I can’t hit at it now,” I said, hoarsely; “it will strike away the pole.”

“Yes; don’t hit yet. Wait a bit till he untwissens himself; then give it him sharp, look you.”

“You won’t let it go?” I said.

“Not a bit of it, my lad. Too fond of Morgan Johns to let him stick his fangs into me. Now you’ve got a chance. No, you haven’t; he’s twisted up tighter than ever. Never mind, wait a bit; there’s no hurry.”

“But you are torturing it so,” I cried.

“Can’t help it, Master George. If I didn’t, he’d torture me and you too. Well, he does twissen about. Welsh eel’s nothing to him.”

For the snake in its rage and pain kept twining about the pole, treating that as the cause of all its suffering. Morgan stood there full of excitement, but though longing to deliver a blow that should paralyse if it did not kill our enemy, I could not get the slightest chance.

“Ah, we ought to have had a cut at him before he twined about my pole,” said Morgan, after this had been going on for some minutes; “but it wasn’t your fault; there wasn’t time.”

“No,” I said, gloomily, “there was no time. Now then, hold tight.”

I made a rapid stroke at the long, lithe body which suddenly untwisted to its full length, but my rake-handle only struck the ground, for the serpent was quicker than I, and it threw itself once more in a series of quivering folds about Morgan’s pole.