“Get out with your corbon budgery,” cried Norman. “What’s he going to do?”
They soon knew, for, going out again into the open, Shanter let the bee fly and darted off after it, keeping the patch of white in view, till it disappeared among some trees.
“Dat bee fellow gunyah,” cried Shanter, as the boys ran up, and they followed the direction of the black’s pointing finger, to see high up in a huge branch a number of bees flying in and out, and in a very short time Shanter had seized the little hatchet Rifle carried in his belt, and began to cut big notches in the bark of the tree, making steps for his toes, and by their means mounting higher and higher, till he was on a level with the hole where the bees came in and out.
“Mind they don’t sting you, Shanter,” cried Tim.
“What six-ting?” cried Shanter.
“Prick and poison you.”
“Bee fellow ticklum,” he cried laughing, as he began chopping away at the bark about the hollow which held the nest, and brought out so great a cloud of insects that he descended rapidly.
“Shanter let ’em know,” he cried; and running back to the camp he left the boys watching the bees, till he returned with a cooliman—a bark bowl formed by peeling the excrescence of a tree—and some sticks well lighted at the end.
By means of these the black soon had a fire of dead grass tufts smoking tremendously, arranging it so that the clouds curled up and played round the bees’ nest.
“Bee fellow baal like smoke,” he cried. “Make bee go bong.”