They lay low for a minute, then, hearing no sound, crept up close enough to gain a view of the camp. The squatter’s family were sitting dejectedly in the shelter of smoke from a heavy smudge. Larue himself reclined against a tree, but he was hardly recognizable. Both his eyes seemed to be swollen shut. He had two big lumps on his forehead, his lips were puffed, and one ear was twice its rightful size. It was clear that he was in no fighting condition, and the boys walked up without any hesitation.
He was plainly in no condition to show fight, and the boys advanced without hesitation
“You seem to be having trouble,” said Bob innocently.
The squatter tried to screw his eyes open far enough to get a glimpse of them.
“Nom d’un nom!” he ejaculated, thickly through his swollen lips. “Dose bees! Dey come—dey swarm—!” and he trailed off into a mixture of French and English indistinguishably distorted in his puffy mouth. They could hardly make out a word.
“What’s been happening, Mrs. Larue?” said Carl, turning to the woman. She also bore marks of stings, and so did the two children.
“Your bees!” she cried. “Dey come in by t’ousands—millions! We stay in de house—no! Pas possible! Dey kill my two best poulets. Kill us too, if we not get out!”
“What do you suppose they could have been after?” asked Bob.
The woman cast a quick glance at her husband, and said she didn’t know, but in her queer dialect she gave an excited account of what had happened—from her point of view.