[Illustration:  “That little black-backed fellow doing the stalking act upon that python was great”]

There was a little snicker, as it were, in the air as his fangs closed, and the python, waking one-twentieth of a second too late, lifted its head.  Then, short and crisp—­snap!

Talk about tweaking a lightning-flash by its tail!  It would have been a wake to what followed then.

The jackal knew what to expect—­by instinct, I suppose.  Anyway, he did not wait longer than it takes to scrunch as hard as possible with canine teeth as sharp as knives, and leap clear.

Ho did it, however, and stood well back, with his ears cocked and his head on one side.  It was as if he were panting, “Now, let her rip”—­and she did.

A hurricane in a cage, a volcano in an eligible house-lot, a geyser in a water-jug—­what you will; but they were all tame alongside that python, after the little black-back had got his fangs home.

You know the size of pythons?  ’Bout the biggest things in snakes there are going, bar two; and this one was not a baby.  But nobody can properly measure their strength.  This one unwrapped itself in one awful swiftness, and wrapped itself up again more awfully swiftly and in worse knots.  Then things became hazy, and one could only tell by the dust, and the sand, and the grass, and the leaves, and the other things flying around that something was happening.

But the jackal did not seem to care.  He only sat well back, with jaws open and very red tongue lolling, obviously doing a dog-laugh to himself.  Perhaps it touched his sense of humor to think that so small a beast as he, with just one scientific bite, should create such a deal of disturbance.  But the—­er—­aroma could not have amused even him, and he was, as you might say, salted to stenches; for, though he was on the up-wind side, even there it was enough to knock flat anything that the python’s tail could not reach.  It was a most stupendous stench—­a sort of weapon of defense, or danger-signal, that these big snakes have.

Now, perhaps it was the reek that drew the purr.  Purring is generally looked upon as a nice and comfy sort of a sound, but this was not.

The jackal just heard it intruding upon the confusion of the python’s last contortions, as if suddenly, and it seemed to come from the ground, and the sky, and the surrounding scenery all at the same time.  There was nothing nice and comfy about it at all.  The jackal removed himself, at sound of it, about four yards in as many bounds, and every grizzled scrap of fur along his black back stood on end.  If we had heard it, we should have reached for our rifle, and felt tingly all down our spine, for that was the sort of purr it was—­a horrible, hungry, suggestive, cruel, and blood-curdling sound of ghoulish pleasure.

The jackal ceased to dog-laugh, and his tail was between his legs, for he knew that purr, and its name was death.  Death angry is bad enough, but death pleased—­