Not knowing but a similar fate might soon be mine, in agony, with the cold sweat streaming over me. I listened to this infernal recital of an instance of the summary punishment termed “Lynch Law,” to which the unavailability of the statute law so often drove the early settlers, and which, unfortunately for the fair character of the South and West, is not yet entirely abolished.
The sailor must again have moved his foot closer than agreeable to the snake, for his infernal rattling recommenced, and this time clear, loud, and continuous to the tutored ear, indicating great danger, the prelude to a fatal spring.
I shook off my lethargy, and shrieked out, “Don't move for your life! a light! for God's sake bring a light! Quick! quick!” None moved—thinking I was jesting.
“Mister,” spoke the sailor, “if it's a trick to scare me, you'll miss the figure with your child's rattle. Jes bring one of your real rattlesnakes along, and I'll show you whether he can frighten an English sailor or not.”
Hearing me calling so loudly for a light, the mate, a stalwart Irishman, came running up with a large torch, but hardly had he reached the deck, when he discovered the monster—his head drawn back ready for striking.
[Original]
“Snake! snake!” yelled he, punching at him with his glaring torch.
“Whereabouts, you lubber?” said the sailor, still suspecting a trick.