Well, by night I forgot all about the snake, and when Jim flung himself down on the blanket while I struck a light the snake's mate was there, and bit him.
He jumped up yelling, and the first thing the light showed was the varmint curled up and ready for another spring.

I laid him out in a second with a stick, and Jim grabbed pap's whisky-jug and begun to pour it down.
He was barefooted, and the snake bit him right on the heel.

That all comes of my being such a fool as to not remember that wherever you leave a dead snake its mate always comes there and curls around it.

Jim told me to chop off the snake's head and throw it away, and then skin the body and roast a piece of it.

I done it, and he eat it and said it would help cure him.