“Rattlesnake!” “Man overboard!” “Stop her!” “Out with the yawl!” “Fire!” “Snake!” “She's sinking!” “Shoot him!” “Snake!” “Whose is it?” “Lynch the rascal!” “Kill the scoundrel!” swelled on the air, mingled with the crashing of broken doors and chairs, the oaths and rushing of terrified men, and the screaming of still more terrified women, who knew not what to fear, while clear and distinct above the infernal melée arose the piercing rattle of the snake, who, writhing his huge proportions about, and striking at everything near him, seemed to glory in the confusion he had created. A shot was heard, and then the coil collapsed, and the rattling slowly ceased. The snake was dead. “Who brought him on board?” “Let's lynch the scoundrel!” “Are there any more of them?” “Here's the box he got out of!” _My name was on it_ in large capitals. “Throw it overboard!” “Throw it overboard!” I yelled out, “it may have more in it, throw it overboard.” No sooner said than done, and as the only evidence of my participation floated over the wave, no one was louder in his denunciation, no one wanted to be shown--in order that he might be lynched--the rascal that brought it on board, more than I did, except, perhaps, it was the sailor, who, now thoroughly humbled, stood shivering in his wet clothes by the furnace, ready to acknowledge that the “little, noisy flirt of an American snake, no larger than a marlin' spike,” was “some snakes” certain. FRANK AND THE PROFESSOR. |It wanted but a few days of the commencement of the lectures. Having procured a boarding-house, and furnished myself with the necessary books and tickets, I was sauntering over the city, amusing myself with the many strange sights which pass unnoticed by the denizens, yet have such an attraction for the grave rat just emerged from the country, when I was hailed by a Southern acquaintance--a rattling, red-headed fellow, of Irish descent; the proof of which, the tip of his tongue always presented.