He snatched back his hand, to hold it out, for a tiny smear of moisture to be seen glistening in the sun upon the palm of his hand.
The doctor seized him by the wrist, and then examined the fold of the jacket.
“Do you feel anything—a prick in the chest?” he said hoarsely.
“No, father. It was a sharp thump, as if some one had thrown a stone.”
“Here is the venom on the thick frieze,” said the doctor, tearing open the jacket and examining the thin flannel shirt beneath. “No! Thank Heaven!” he cried, with a sigh of relief. “The fangs did not go through. Chris, boy, you have escaped. If the reptile had driven its fangs deeper, I fear that I couldn’t have saved your life.”
“That doesn’t sound very nice, father,” said the boy coolly; but Griggs noted that he changed colour, and then laid his hands upon his father’s shoulders, after dropping his knife on the ground.
“It was a miss, doctor,” said Griggs, breaking the silence, as he scooped up some of the dried sand and rubbed Chris’s hand, and with another handful dried the fold of the jacket.
This he repeated two or three times, and also paused to look well inside the fold next the boy’s chest.
“Didn’t go through, sir; that’s for certain,” he said. “There’ll be no danger in the poison as soon as it’s dried in the sun.”
“None whatever, I should say,” replied the doctor. “There, let’s get away from this horrible place. I don’t know how we’re going to get those kegs again. The danger seems too great.”