Miss Leslie put her hands before her face, and burst into hysterical weeping.
Blake looked around, far more alarmed than when facing the adder.
“Here, you blooming lud!” he shouted; “take the lady away, and be quick about it. She’ll go dotty if she sees any more snake stunts. Clear out with her, while I smash the wriggler.”
Winthrope, who had been staring fixedly at the beautiful coloring and loathsome form of the writhing adder, started at Blake’s harsh command as though struck.
“I–er–to be sure,” he stammered, and darting around to the hysterical girl, he took her arm and hurried her away up the glade.
They had gone several paces when Blake came running up behind them. Winthrope looked back with a glance of inquiry. Blake shook his head.
“Not yet,” he said. “Give me your cigarette case. I’ve thought of something– Hold on; take out the cigarettes. Smoke ’em, if you like.”
Case in hand, Blake returned to the wounded adder, and picked up his club. A second smashing blow would have ended the matter at once; but Blake did not strike. Instead, he feinted with his club until he managed to pin down the venomous head. The club lay across the monster’s neck, and he held it fast with the pressure of his foot.
When, half an hour later, he wiped his knife on a wisp of grass and stood up, the cigarette case contained over a tablespoonful of a crystalline liquid. He peered in at it, his heavy jaw thrust out, his eyes glowing with savage elation.
“Talk about your meat trusts and Winchesters!” he exulted; “here’s a whole carload of beef in this little box–enough dope to morgue a herd of steers. Good God, though, that was a close shave for her!”