As he thus communed with himself, Clarence bent and quickly picked up five stones; then rising, he sent one after the other driving at the hollow spot in the tree. The first stone went wild, the second struck the tree, the third nearly entered the hole, the fourth flew wild, and the fifth——!
So intent was the gypsy upon the imaginary castigation he was inflicting that he was still swishing the air violently when out of the hole flew an army of angry bees. They were not inclined to be dispassionate. Somebody had done them a wrong, and somebody had to suffer for it. The bees were upon the gypsy when he was just putting all his strength into a most vicious swing. He swung that stick no more. With a roar that set the echoes ringing, Pete dropped the stick, and clapping his hands to his head set out at a rate, which, if properly timed, would, no doubt, have created a new record in the way of a fifty-yard dash for the river, into which he plunged with an agility worthy of youth and professional diving.
To the gypsies who, attracted by his yells (for he had yelled all the way to the river’s edge), had gathered on the bank, it appeared that Pete was going in for a long distance swim. In fact, he had almost crossed the river, before he ventured to turn back. Clarence, who had thoughtfully possessed himself of the switch and broken it into minute pieces, was the last to join the eager and mystified watchers.
“What’s the matter?”—“What’s happened?”—These and a dozen similar questions in English and in gypsy patter greeted his arrival.
“I rather think,” said Clarence in his most serious manner, “that Pete must have run up against a swarm of bees, and they weren’t glad to see him. I noticed him a minute ago running for the river with the speed of a deer. It was fine to see him go. It seemed to me that there was a bunch of bees around his head—a sort of a crown of glory—acting as his escort. It’s a pleasure to see a man like Pete run. I’d walk twenty miles to get a treat like that.”
Before Pete had quite achieved his return, Ben called Clarence aside.
“Clarence, you got those bees after Pete.”
“Who told you?”
“Pete’s oldest son; he was watching you. There’s always someone watching you.”
“Great Caesar!” cried Clarence losing all his blitheness, and turning pale as a sheet. “I’m in for it now. He’ll kill me?”