274 NATHANIEL SOUTHGATE SEALER 



brought to camp, confined in a loosely put together wooden 

 box, one of the largest and fiercest specimens that had been 

 caught for a long time. Mr. Shaler happening to meet the old 

 man first, told him he was too late, and advised him to kill the 

 snake. Nevertheless he persisted in going the rounds in the hope 

 of selling his commodity. In the hurry of getting off on the 

 day's tramp he was brusquely pushed aside by the young men 

 and doubtless soon forgotten. Finally when the camp was 

 deserted by its militant element he was observed sitting discon- 

 solately on a rock gazing at the prisoner in the box, whereupon 

 one of the timid sex approached and asked what he was going 

 to do with the reptile. "I'm er goin' to let him loose," was his 

 reply. "Surely not here." "Yes, jist right hyur, er long sides 

 them tents. I worked tumble hard to get that thar sarpent ; 

 walked nigh on to fourteen miles over the mountain, an' now 

 I'm goin' to have my five dollars or knowther reason why." 

 "Come down to my tent," said the alarmed questioner, "and 

 let's talk about it over a cup of coffee." The order was given 

 to bring the refreshment, which, next to home-made whiskey, 

 was the most loved by the "native," but in the presence of the 

 dormant terror it seemed ages before it appeared. 



In the meanwhile the mountaineer was enticed into telling 

 his adventures his moonlight search for medicinal herbs, the 

 circumstances under which "he brought down his men," and 

 other details of family feuds. At last the pot of coffee, together 

 with bread and bacon, came, and the feast began. With each 

 fresh cup, though the vaunted superiority of the snake in- 

 creased, the price fell until at last it seemed likely to stick at 

 three dollars. At this stage of the negotiation some tobacco 

 was produced and the stiff trader persuaded to fill his pipe. 

 After a few whiffs, he exclaimed, looking lovingly at his trophy, 

 "He's the gamest ever I seed. I reckon he's got pison enough 

 in them thar fangs of his'n ter kill nigh on ter er dozen folks. 

 Yes, I tell you he's jes 'er bustin' ter git arter them studen's, 

 and what's more, all the whiskey in creation, nor lard nuther, 



