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Howard thought he had never been so pleased to see anyone. Somewhere around midnight Howard had confessed that if Harry had not arrived when he had he, Howard, would have been drunk by now and would have stayed that way for a week and Harry had said that habits were the most dangerous things for a lonely bachelor. Jour sans. Jour avec. That sort of system. Howard remembered the morning vividly. They had taken shotguns to see if they could get a couple of duck or guinea fowl for the larder, for Marshall was staying for at least a week.
He had either tramped on the snake or very near it; it had probably been asleep at the edge of the path. Anyway, it had hit Harry in the left calf, just a smack, as though someone had softly clapped his hand; then the shining whiplash through the grass and it was gone. I put on two more ligatures, one above the knee and one at the top of the thigh. Then I put him to bed and wrapped him in blankets. All they could. Then he seemed to calm down and was perfectly normal except he had a touch of diarrhoea.
He also said that the muscles in his mouth and tongue were twitching a bit. They chatted, rather like two people in a convalescent home where the patient is almost whole again. He seemed rather tired.
I think he was trying to force air down it. He shouted my name once, then fell down and was dead in five minutes. He doubted very much that Dave would use the gun with Jacmel in the room. He had drunk the rest of the brandy and almost a bottle of whisky and had become maudlin with loneliness and shock and found himself crying like a child. Later, when dawn came, they had carried the body to the far side of the boma and dug a grave.