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hat puma down south and that was all of twenty…five years ago； nor the cat beast that had ravaged flocks of Welsh sheep more recently。
John made it back to the main street； all eyes still on him。 That's John Price； he knows all about snakes； got a degree in 'em。 Ugh！ A news reporter stepped out of the crowd； barred his way； a microphone thrust at him like some threatening weapon。
'Where do you think these mongooses came from； Mr Price？'
'I haven't a clue。'
Liar！ You read it in the other's eyes； the implication in his tone of voice。
'Do you think all the snakes are dead？'
The million dollar question。 Have we got 'em all？
'Mongooses are pretty thorough hunters。' He chose his words carefully。 'They just live for hunting snakes。 If there are any left they'll surely get 'em。' He pushed his way past the reporter； increased his step until he reached the bungalow。
Are all the snakes dead？
Maybe； maybe not。 That initial inventory of the escaped reptiles was piled by a process of elimination from the intended recipients of the reptiles not from that cowboy zoo。 Nobody really knew。
Only time would tell。
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