Oliver Dixon had stolen away by himself, consuming himself with rage over the fact that Ida should have chosen to slip away without inviting him. Dixon came outside, however, as the young people came up the boardwalk together.
“Oh, Mrs. Tremaine, you have missed such a stirring time,” hailed Miss Silsbee, gayly.
Tom Halstead laughed, quietly. Hearing their arrival, Joe also came out. Miss Silsbee, of course, had to describe their adventure, in which Tom Halstead’s share lost nothing by her telling.
“I hope you’ll take a sufficient warning from this, child,” said Mr. Tremaine, presently. “Never venture onto any of the islands, or in any of these woods hereabouts, unless beaters go ahead of you to rouse up and despatch whatever snakes there may be lurking under the bushes.”
“Beaters?” inquired the girl.
“Yes; any of the negroes, like Ham, for instance. They don’t mind snakes. They hunt them for sport.”
Ham Mockus made his presence in the background noted.
“Men of your color don’t mind hunting snakes, do you, Ham?” asked the host.
“No, sah. Ah reckons not much, sah.”
“In fact, none of the natives here stand much in dread of reptiles,” continued Tremaine. “They’re used to hunting them, and seem to develop a special instinct for knowing where the snakes are. Young Randolph and Ham, I venture to believe, would go through a twenty-acre field, finding and killing all the snakes there happened to be there.”