Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog 
on the cheeks and shoulders of a pig. Presenting 
these then, Foam approached. The Rattler’s 
tail buzzed like a spinner, and his dancing tongue 
seemed taunting. With a clatter of his ivory knives 
and a few short, coughlike snorts, the Razor-back 
replied, and approached guardedly, tempting the 
snake to strike at its farthest possible range. Both 
seemed to know the game, although it must have 
been equally new to both. The snake knew that 
‘his life was at stake. His coils grew tighter yet, 
his baleful eyes were measuring the foe. A feint, 
and another, and a counter feint, and then—flash, 
the poison spear was thrown. Tobe dodged? No, 
no creature can dodge it. Foam felt it sting his 
cheek, the dreadful yellow spume was splashed on 
the wound, but only less quick was his sharp up- 
jerk. His young tusks caught the reptile’s throat 
and tossed it as he had often tossed the duckling, 
and ere the poison reptile could recover and recoil, 
the Razor-back was on him, stamping and snorting. 
He ripped its belly open, he crushed its head, 
champing till his face and jaws were frothed, grunt- 
ing small war-grunts, and rending, nor ceased till 
all there was left of the death-dealer was evil-smell- 
ing rags of scaly flesh ground into the polluted 
dust. 
“Oh, Foam, oh, Foamy, God bless you!” was all 
45 
