“Ready?” asked Tom of his chum in a low voice.

“Ready!” was the equally low answer.

It was necessary to kill the serpent at one shot, as to merely wound it might mean that in its agony it would thresh about, and seriously injure, if not kill, Mr. Damon.

“Fire!” called Tom in a whisper, and he and Ned pressed the triggers of the electric rifles on the same instant.

There was a streak of bluish flame that cut like a sliver through the gathering darkness, and then, as though a blight had fallen upon it, the folds of the great snake relaxed, and Mr. Damon slipped to the ground unconscious.  The electric charges had gone fairly through the head of the serpent and it had died instantly.

“Quick!  Mr. Damon!  We must get him away!” cried Tom.  “He may be dead!”

Together the chums sprang forward.  The folds of the serpent had scarcely ceased moving before the two youths snatched their friend away.  Dropping their rifles, they lifted him up to bear him to the sleeping tent which had been erected.

“Liver pin!” suddenly ejaculated Mr. Damon.  It was what he started to say when the serpent had squeezed the breath out of him, and, on regaining consciousness from his momentary faint, his brain carried out the suggestion it had originally received.

“How are you?” cried Tom, nearly dropping Mr. Damon’s legs in his excitement, for he had hold of his feet, while Ned was at the head.

“Are you all right?” gasped Ned.

“Yes—­I—­I guess so.  I—­I feel as though I had been put through a clothes wringer though.  What happened?”

“A big snake dropped down out of a tree and grabbed you,” answered Tom.

“And then what?  Put me down, boys, I guess I can walk.”

“We shot it,” said Ned modestly.

“Bless my insurance policy!” exclaimed the odd gentleman.  “I—­I hardly know what to say.  I’ll say it later.  You saved my life.  Let me see if any bones are broken.”

None was, fortunately, and after staggering about a bit Mr. Damon found that he could limp along.  But he was very sore and bruised, for, though the snake had squeezed him but for part of a minute, that was long enough.  A few seconds more and nearly every bone in his body would have been crushed, for that is the manner in which a constrictor snake kills its prey before devouring it.

“Santa Maria!  The dear gentleman is not dead then?” cried San Pedro, as the three approached the tents.

“Bless my name plate, no!” exclaimed Mr. Damon.

“Praise to all the saints!  The brave young senors with their wonderful guns saved him.  Now you must rest and sleep.”

“I feel as if that was all I wanted to do for a month,” commented Mr. Damon.  His soreness and stiffness increased each minute, and he was glad to get to bed, while the boys and Eradicate rubbed his limbs with liniment.  San Pedro knew of a leaf that grew in the jungle which, when bruised, and made into poultices, had the property of drawing out soreness.  The next day he found some, and Mr. Damon was wrapped up in bandages until he declared that he looked like an Egyptian mummy.