I was brought to myself again by a hearty shout just as I was trying to
get rid of a shuddering sensation of fear, and wanting to go to Morgan's
help--asking myself what I ought to do to any one who had been bitten by
a rattlesnake.
"Brayvo! As they say, Master George. You did give it him well."
"But--Morgan--arn't you stung--bitten, I mean?" I faltered.
"Me? No, my lad. He gave me a flop on the cheek with the back of his
head as he shook himself loose, and I didn't stop to give him another
chance. But you did bring that down smart, and no mistake. Let's look
at the end."
He took hold of the pole and examined the place where the two nails had
been driven in to form the fork.
"Yes," he said, thoughtfully. "I was beginning to be afraid of that--
see here. This nail's regularly bent down, and it opened the fork out
so that when he snapped himself like a cart-whip he shook himself clear.
Know better next time. I'll get a bit of iron or an old pitchfork, and
cut the tines down short on purpose for this sort of game, Master
George. Ah, would you?" he shouted, as he made a dart for where the
snake was feebly writhing itself toward the undergrowth, and catching it
by the tail snatched it back to lie all together, writhing slowly.
"Wait till I find my knife. Oh, here it is," he said. "No. Never
mind, give me yours. I'll look afterwards. Dropped it when I rolled
over yonder."