The cluster shivered, as from hooked fore-foot to hooked hind-foot it telegraphed uneasiness. At last a worker sprang up, grabbed the lowest waxmaker, and swung, kicking above her companions.
“I can make wax too!” she bawled. “Give me a full gorge and I'll make tons of it.”
“Make it, then,” said the bee she had grappled. The spoken word snapped the current through the cluster. It shook and glistened like a cat's fur in the dark. “Unhook!” it murmured. “No wax for any one to-day.”
“You lazy thieves! Hang up at once and produce our wax,” said the bees below.
“Impossible! The sweat's gone. To make your wax we must have stillness, warmth, and food. Unhook! Unhook!”
They broke up as they murmured, and disappeared among the other bees, from whom, of course, they were undistinguishable.
“Seems as if we'd have to chew scrap-wax for these pillars, after all,” said a worker.
“Not by a whole comb,” cried the young bee who had broken the cluster. “Listen here! I've studied the question more than twenty minutes. It's as simple as falling off a daisy. You've heard of Cheshire, Root and Langstroth?”
They had not, but they shouted “Good old Langstroth!” just the same.
“Those three know all that there is to be known about making hives. One or t'other of 'em must have made ours, and if they've made it, they're bound to look after it. Ours is a 'Guaranteed Patent Hive.' You can see it on the label behind.”