“Do you know, Alice?” he said with sudden candor, “I don’t believe we’re ever going to locate Old Dick’s place.”
She laughed.
“I’ve been thinking the same myself,” she admitted. “I’m sorry, too. However, I guess we can gather up some hives—gums, I mean—around the country, and if there aren’t enough to ship now, we can do better next spring.”
“Then you’ll come back next spring!” Joe exclaimed. “Good! I’ll look after your bees for you through the winter, and next spring I may be able to locate a lot more. And perhaps I can put some money into the thing myself, if Burnam’s camp doesn’t go bust. And if it does I’m going to get my money out of him anyway, if I have to seize the still. That is, if you-all would like me for a partner,” he added, doubtfully.
“Of course, we’d like to have you, Joe,” returned Alice frankly. “Why, the four of us could handle—oh, so many bees! Maybe a thousand colonies. I know two men who run six hundred between them. There are places up North where they pay profits of ten or fifteen dollars a colony. Think of the money we’d make! But it would cost a lot to get a thousand hives of bees, unless we could get them cheaply here in the South and ship them.”
They talked the matter over for a long time. The two boys came back, rested, and went off again in a different direction. They had no luck. The sun grew low. This was not a suitable spot for camping, as there seemed to be no dry wood within reach, and they took to the boat, landing again at a more promising spot a mile lower. Here they unpacked the provisions, greatly reduced now, and set up the tent.
“Our last camp. To-morrow we’ll be out of grub and have to go home,” Bob remarked. “I don’t care much. No offense to you, Joe, but I don’t think your country is as good as the North for a camping trip.”
“This isn’t a camping trip; this is a bee-hunt,” Joe defended. “This isn’t the time of the year for camping, of course. The swamps are wet, and there’s nothing to shoot, and the snakes are out. You ought to come in January; then you could have the trip of your life, and all the shooting you wanted.”
“But the worst failure is the bees,” said Carl, poking the fire with a cypress pole. “I don’t believe there ever was any Old Dick. It’s all a myth.”
“Well, don’t poke so much,” said Alice, who was manipulating the frying-pan. “If there aren’t Old Dick’s bees, there are others. Joe is going to hunt up gums for us.”