“I shan’t do it,” said Fred, rather red in the face; “they’ll sting.”
“No, they won’t,” said Harry; “I’ll go,” and catching up the bellows, he walked boldly up towards the hole.
“I say,” he said, “you two get boughs, and if the wasps do come out you can beat them down.”
There was a minute of intense interest, during which Harry crept close up to the hole, and Philip and Fred, armed with lime-tree boughs, stood as body guard to protect the assaulting party.
Nearer and nearer went Harry, and then pushed the nozzle right in up to the part holding the brimstone, and puffed away as hard as he could.
“Whir—whooz—whooz—booz—wooz—buzz—wooz—burr—urr-r-r-r—whir-r-r-r,” said the wasps, scuffling out past the nozzle by the dozen; and one, which must have been the leader, made a lodgment in Harry’s hair.
Down went the bellows, and away went the boys as hard as ever they could run out of the plantation, and over the wooden bridge, till they were safe from the infuriated wasps, whose loud hum they could hear even after they were some distance off.
“Here,” said Harry, “knock this beggar out of my head; make haste, or he’ll sting me.” For there, buzzing and struggling in the boy’s curls, was one of the wasps, which was killed by Fred, who squeezed it between two pieces of stick, and placed it beyond the power of doing mischief.
“Ha, ha, ha!” said Philip, when there was no more danger: and when he had got his breath again, “What a game!”
“Booh,” said Harry; “was it? You wouldn’t like to go and try again.”