There they were--five
huge, hairy, dirty, black creatures, as large as the palm of Dicky's
hand, all locked in deadly combat. They writhed and struggled and
embraced, their long, curling legs fastening on each other with a
sound that was actually like the cracking of bones. It takes a
little courage to stand and watch such a proceeding, for you feel as
if the hideous fellows might turn and jump for you; but they were
doubtless absorbed in their own battle, and we wanted to see the
affair to the end, so we took the risk, if there was any. At last
they showed signs of weariness, but we prodded them up with our
riding-whips, preferring that they should kill each other, rather
than do the thing ourselves. Finally, four of them lay in the dust,
doubled up and harmless, slain, I suppose, by their own poison. One,
the conquering hero, remained, and we dexterously scooped him into a
tomato-can that Jack had tied to his saddle for a drinking-cup,
covered him up with a handkerchief, and drew lots as to who should
carry him home to Dr. Paul.
Knowing that the little beasts were gregarious, we hunted about for a
nest, which we might send to you after ousting its disagreeable
occupant. After much searching, we found a group of them--quite a
tarantula village, in fact. Their wonderful little houses are closed
on the outside by a circular, many-webbed mesh, two or three inches
across, and this web betrays the spider's den to the person who knows
the tricks of the trade.
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