His fellows hustled
him off to a room over a neighboring saloon, where they proceeded
to administer the classic treatment. Before the doctor arrived
they had introduced a quart and a half of whisky into a stomach
unused to anything stronger than beer in small quantities. Six
hours later, when I saw the man through the wreckage of chairs,
tables, and bedding, four battered friends were trying to hold
him down. They thought he was having convulsions from the snake
venom. He wasn't. He was having delirium tremens from the whisky.
His arm and shoulder were purple and swollen. Later he collapsed.
"Will he die?" I asked the doctor.
"He won't die of the bite, but I think he will of the whisky,"
replied the disgusted practitioner.
But he didn't. His splendid physique pulled him through. It was
long, however, before he wholly recovered from the effects of the
two poisons.
This was in a Hudson River town. Only a few miles away a negro
boy, shortly after, was struck by a copperhead on the bare leg.
The wound was a deep, double-fanged puncture. While the boy's
father rushed for whisky, his mother ran for the doctor. The
doctor got there first.
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