“A skeeter?”
“No,” said Ned, more faintly. “Call to your father for help.”
“What for? Here, shall I strike a light?”
“N–no. It might make it angry.”
“It? It?” said Chris, with all the petulance of one who had been previously disturbed by his bed-fellow’s alarms. “What is it?”
“Down by the pool—the hot sand—you know—amongst the stones.”
“What! A snake?” whispered Chris, alarmed in turn now, and feeling the cold perspiration breaking out on his temples.
“Yes—a rattler.”
“Look here, you boys,” said a stern voice, in a whisper from close at hand, “I begged you to—”
“A light, father! Be careful!” gasped Chris, and the next moment there was a sharp scratching sound, a flash, and a pale light played over the recumbent figures.