The unfortunate man, with dilated eyes
fixed upon the ground, crouched waiting for the coming of the pain
that would indicate that the poison was working its deadly course,
and that the end was near if something was not done immediately.
Losing no more time, I cried to Jerome to pour out some gunpowder
while I sucked the wound. While doing this I fumbled in the spacious
pockets of my khaki hunting-coat and secured the bistoury with which
I made a deep incision in the flesh over the wound, causing the blood
to flow freely. In the meantime, Jerome had filled a measure with
black powder and this was now emptied into the bleeding wound and a
burning match applied at once. The object of this was to cauterise the
wound, a method that has been used with success in the outskirts of
the world where poisonous reptiles abound and where proper antidotes
cannot be had.
The Chief stood the ordeal without a murmur, never flinching even at
the explosion of the gunpowder. Jerome and I made him as comfortable
as possible, and sat sadly by his side watching him suffer and die
by inches.
It is no easy thing to see a man meet death, but under these
circumstances it was particularly distressing. The Chief had been a man
of a strong constitution particularly adapted to the health-racking
work of a rubber-hunter.
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