“Wow!” he yelled. “Puff adder! I’ll fix him.”
He leaped back, and thrust his bow at the snake. The challenge was met by a vicious lunge. Even where he stood Winthrope heard the thud of the reptile’s head upon the ground.
“Now, once more, tootsie!” mocked Blake, swinging up his club.
Again the adder struck at the bow tip, more viciously than before. With the flash of the stroke, Blake’s right foot thrust forward, and his club came down with all the drive of his sinewy arm behind it. The blow fell across the thickest part of the adder’s outstretched body.
“Told you so! See him wiggle!” shouted Blake. “Broke his back, first lick– What’s the matter, Miss Jenny? He can’t do anything now.”
Miss Leslie did not answer. She stood rigid, her face ashy-gray, her dilated eyes fixed upon the writhing, hissing adder.
“I–I think the snake struck her!” gasped Winthrope, suddenly overcome with horror.
“God!” cried Blake. He dropped his club, and rushed to the girl. In a moment he had knelt before her and flung up her leopard-skin skirt. Her stockings ripped to shreds in his frantic grasp. There, a little below her right knee, was a tiny red wound. Blake put his lips to it, and sucked with fierce energy.
Then the girl found her voice.
“Go away–go away! How dare you!” she cried, as her face flushed scarlet.