“You rub your finger over the place, and if it hurts more than when you don’t rub it, and if it feels like there was a sliver in it, that’s the sting. Or you can see it with a magnifying glass. I worked for a feller once that kept bees, and I got stung regular. They say it’s good for rheumatism,” he added cheerfully.
“Give me the rheumatism,” said Blake as he tenderly felt of a swelling on his cheek. “Say, maybe they didn’t come for us!”
“Are they gone?” demanded Natalie, peering from between the tightly-held tent-flaps.
“Pretty much,” replied Jack. “Cæsar’s pineapples! How they hurt though!”
“Be careful, girls,” cautioned Mrs. Bonnell. But a little observation told them that the hornets had gone back to repair the damage done by Phil’s stone thoughtlessly tossed into their nest.
“What do you do for the stings?” asked Blake of the farm lad.
“I always puts mud on ’em.”
“Ammonia is better,” volunteered Mrs. Bonnell. “Wait and I’ll get you boys some. I have a bottle of the strongest kind for my little pistol.”
“I wish we’d had that when they came at us,” murmured Phil, clasping a wrist that was rapidly getting to be twice its natural size.
The ammonia made the stings feel a little less painful, and then the boys went back to their camp to don dry clothes.