I don’t know how it happened exactly; I only can tell that I felt horribly frightened, starting back as Morgan fell over, and that then, as the snake was preparing to strike, being naturally slow and weak from its efforts, the pole I held in both hands came down heavily, and then again and again, till our enemy lay broken and twisting weakly, its back broken in two places, and the blood flowing from its mouth.
Chapter Five.
I was brought to myself again by a hearty shout just as I was trying to get rid of a shuddering sensation of fear, and wanting to go to Morgan’s help—asking myself what I ought to do to any one who had been bitten by a rattlesnake.
“Brayvo! As they say, Master George. You did give it him well.”
“But—Morgan—arn’t you stung—bitten, I mean?” I faltered.
“Me? No, my lad. He gave me a flop on the cheek with the back of his head as he shook himself loose, and I didn’t stop to give him another chance. But you did bring that down smart, and no mistake. Let’s look at the end.”
He took hold of the pole and examined the place where the two nails had been driven in to form the fork.
“Yes,” he said, thoughtfully. “I was beginning to be afraid of that—see here. This nail’s regularly bent down, and it opened the fork out so that when he snapped himself like a cart-whip he shook himself clear. Know better next time. I’ll get a bit of iron or an old pitchfork, and cut the tines down short on purpose for this sort of game, Master George. Ah, would you?” he shouted, as he made a dart for where the snake was feebly writhing itself toward the undergrowth, and catching it by the tail snatched it back to lie all together, writhing slowly. “Wait till I find my knife. Oh, here it is,” he said. “No. Never mind, give me yours. I’ll look afterwards. Dropped it when I rolled over yonder.”