Sam stiffened up to attention like some alarmed wild animal, rolling his eyes in the direction of the sound. Both the white boys stood for a full half-minute, intently listening, but no other shot came.
“That was our fellows!” Joe muttered.
“But it was far away,” said his cousin. “All of a mile, I should think.”
“Yes, and away over past the old channel,” said Joe. “Down in the very district we were exploring. If we’d kept on, we might have run right into them. Well, we can’t do anything to-night; and they’re likely tied up for the night too. I expect that was Blue Bob shooting a wild duck for supper.”
The shot had put the bees out of their heads, recalling the more immediate purpose. It was getting too late to investigate the bees, too; they were ceasing to fly, and a dull, steady roar resounded from the recesses of the blackberries, telling Bob’s experienced ear that there were strong colonies in there that had had a good day.
The sun was shining red behind the trees now, and in an hour it would be dark. The question of a camp-ground was an urgent one, and they went in to look at the possibilities of the old cabin. Bob stopped just inside, sniffing.
“Smells like a beehive in here,” he remarked.
There was indeed an unmistakable odor of honey and beeswax in the air, and with a cry of astonishment Sam pointed at a recess between the wall and the roof. There hung a great mass of brown honeycomb, covered with crawling bees.
They had an exit to the open air through a wide crack in the wall, and two or three of them took wing and buzzed threateningly about the intruders. Sam hastily retreated.
“A swarm must have hived itself here and built its combs right on the boards,” said Bob, examining the mass cautiously. “By the dark color of the wax, they’ve been here more than one season. When Old Dick moved out the bees moved in, it seems. I suppose they’d stand the winter all right in this country, but they wouldn’t last long in such a place up North.”