"I'll come aboard and rest a while before going down again," said Haswell. And he was helped aboard, and undressed.
His finger swelled while this was being done, and, by the time he stood in his flannels, he had a hand that was fast turning black. Williams said little. The poisonous water snakes that infest certain tropical seas close to the river mouths were known to him. Those in the Indian Ocean are especially dangerous.
Haswell gazed at the blackening finger, and shook his head.
"Better give me some whisky," he said. He drank, and sat down. Williams stood near, and Mitchell came up.
"That's a bad bite," said Mitchell.
"Well, I suppose there's no use waiting any longer—cut it off, and be quick," said Haswell.
Mitchell, iron-nerved and steady, cut the finger off close to the hand, and stopped the flow of blood with a strong bandage. The swelling continued, and the arm began to pain greatly.
"Cut away the hand," said Haswell, white and shaky, but showing an amazing coolness. He realized his danger. Mitchell performed another amputation.
Within an hour they had his arm off at the elbow, and Haswell was turning blue all over.
It was an uncanny thing—right there in that bright sunshine, a man done a mortal injury by some foul sea vermin that had attacked him in the depths. I had heard of the sea snakes that come down the African rivers and go well offshore, but had never seen one. Those in the Indian Ocean I had seen often, and remembered that they were about four or five feet long and a few inches in circumference.