But he got hold of his senses. Should he dare to call? If Danville was alive and conscious, he would hear and perhaps rescue him. But how? What could Danville do that he, Skinny, could not do? Anything that either of them tried to do would be perilous, might precipitate a fatal sequel. If he moved or shouted, he might arouse the torpid thing whose clammy coldness he could feel against his torn stocking. His leg was not bound for its whole length, but he dared not even wriggle his foot. The reptile was so tightly coiled that the circulation was embarrassed in his leg and his foot was asleep. Yet he dared not seek relief by moving it about. His predicament was appalling, unnerving, especially to a boy of his highly strung nature. He tried to bring himself to scream. That might either bring help or death. Quick help or quick death. But probably Danville was already dead. The smoke was pouring out like smoke out of a chimney; it was a good job this little mascot had done. Why did not Danville shout, or appear? Surely, if he was safe, he would not fail to see the smoke rising from the jungly hillock; he would scramble up and investigate. The thought of the smoke caused him to indulge the hope that this mounting column he had released might be seen at camp; that if he just lay motionless perhaps some one would come and rescue him from this grotesque predicament. But in his heart he knew that it would not be seen at camp, seven miles distant. The smoke was thinning out now and loathsome little bugs with many legs crawled rapidly about, seeking their wonted shelter under damp logs; they were part of the exodus from that stifling inferno, hardier than humans in their battle with the deadly fumes. One of them crawled aimlessly across Skinny's face, but he dared not move his arm to brush it away. He saw one of his familiar little red lizards making its way up the stick and across the rattlesnake as if it did not mind this poisonous reptile in the least. Suddenly a thought came which startled him. This loathsome snake would come out of its stupor now that it was in the pure, clear air. It would realize where it was and would sting him. It would sting him right where its horrible head lay, a little above his knee. He strained his eyes, pressed his chin into his chest, and looked at that frightful head. The little beady eyes were open; it was hard to believe that the snake was stupefied. But at least it did not shoot out its cruel, darting tongue. It remained quite motionless. It seemed satisfied if he was. But why should it remain long inert when these escaping denizens of the cave were able to make good their rush to safety?