“No; these are not the kind of trees they nest in. They do not go hollow.”
“What will you do, then?”
“Repeat the process, sir.”
And this was done four times, till the last bee was traced to a quarter of a mile from where they started, and a tiny hole was made out sixty feet from the ground, about which scores of little dark insects could be seen darting.
“Now how to get the honey?” said Nic.
“Send or bring Bungarolo here to-morrow with an axe and a bucket, and you shall have plenty.”
Eager to see the taking of the spoil, Nic was over in good time next morning, the black trotting by his side; and upon reaching the tree the Australian savage took the axe from his waistcloth, while Leather lit a great piece of touchwood by means of a burning glass. This wood began to burn, emitting a dense white smoke, and as the convict waved it about, the black took off his waistcloth, passed it through the handle of the bucket, and tied it again about his middle, so that the bucket hung behind. Then, axe in hand, he began to chop notches in the soft bark, to make steps for his active feet, and climbed steadily up and up, Nic watching him the while.
“It looks very dangerous,” said the boy. “Think he is likely to fall?”
“Not in the least, sir. They begin doing these things when children, and they don’t seem to have any nerves.”
It seemed indeed as if the black did not know fear, for he went on up and up till he was fully sixty feet from the ground, and here he held on with his legs while he undid his waistcloth once more and tied it now to a branch, so that the bucket hung close to the hole where the bees buzzed in and out, as if feeling in no wise incommoded by the black face so near.