CHAPTER XXIII
A GLIMPSE OF AN OLD ENEMY
"We are in a pickle now and no mistake!" groaned Fred Garrison. He hated snakes as much as he did poison.
"It's certainly bad," declared Songbird Powell. "I wonder what we had best do?"
"Has anybody got a pistol?"
Nobody had, nor was there any weapon handy outside of a jackknife and a fishing rod.
"If we only had a shot-gun," sighed Sam.
"But we haven't one and we must do the best we can without it," answered Tom. "Songbird, supposing you try to charm 'em with some of that soothing poetry of yours. Or take a picture of 'em."
"This is no joke," growled Powell. "I want my clothes."
"Well, go ahead and take 'em—I shan't stop you."
"I'm going to get another rock," said Sam.
"Let us all get stones," suggested Tom. "Then we can throw together."
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