Nicholson did not answer. Mr. Scarlett was recovering consciousness now, and he was working very rapidly. Popple Opstein and I had to fly round and do this and that as he bade us. There was no time to ask questions or answer them.
At last Nicholson, starting to bandage the arm, asked for a piece of rope—a couple of feet of signal halyard.
"Now a needle and thread," he called, and, when I fetched them, sewed the bandage very securely.
Not till then had I time to look at the snake again.
It was now lying perfectly still, coiled closely like a watch-spring, the flat head pressed over the coils and the light flickering in its green opal eyes and playing on the enamelled scales.
Nicholson, busy holding Mr. Scarlett's head, jerked out: "Hide it!
"Pick it up," he said irritably, as my chum hesitated to touch it; "the confounded thing won't hurt you."
Popple Opstein stooped and took hold of it very gingerly. As it did not move he held it in the palm of his hand, and we were both examining its marvellous beauty when Nicholson again jerked out: "Hide it somewhere—lock it up—Mr. Scarlett's coming round—he mustn't see it."
I took it very nervously from Popple Opstein, and in the excited state of my nerves, its scales seemed to press themselves into my hand and wriggle. I could only just prevent myself dropping it, and darted into the cabin and locked it in my one drawer.
"Now, help me to lift him," Nicholson called out, and in a couple of minutes Mr. Scarlett lay moaning in his bunk, with the bad arm swathed in cotton-wool and bandages.