If any one had followed this young man, they would have observed him footing it up the main road of the island for about half a mile, at a surprising pace for one no more energetically inclined than he. Then, at a certain point, Harry Brackett left the road, crawled through some bars that led into a pasture, and made his way by a winding cow-path into a clump of bushes and small trees, some distance farther.
Harry Brackett evidently was not travelling at random, but had some fixed destination. This destination, shortly arrived at, proved to be a large, cone-shaped, grayish object, hanging from the branch of a tree, near to the ground. The boy approached it cautiously, pulled a cap that he wore down about his ears, tied a handkerchief about his neck, turned up his coat-collar, and put on a pair of thick gloves.
If any one had been near, they might have heard a subdued humming, or droning sound coming from the object on the branch. It was a wasp’s nest of enormous size.
Harry Brackett next proceeded to take from his pocket a small scrap of cotton cloth and a bottle, from which, as he uncorked and inverted it, there issued a thick stream of tar and pitch, used for boat calking. Having smeared the cloth with this, he was ready for business.
He stole quietly up to the nest, clapped the sticky cloth over the orifice at the base of it, dodged back, and awaited results.
A sound as of a tiny windmill arose within the nest—an angry sound, which indicated that the fiery-tempered inmates were aware of their imprisonment and were prepared for warfare. But Harry Brackett had accomplished his design, unscathed. A few tiny objects, darting angrily about in the vicinity, showed that some of the insects still remained without the nest, and were surprised and indignant at finding their doorway thus unexpectedly barred.
Somewhat uncertain as to how these might receive him, Harry Brackett screwed up his courage and dashed up to the nest, which he severed from the tree by cutting off the branch with his clasp-knife. His venture proved successful, and, swinging his hat about his head to ward off any chance wasp that might come to close quarters with him, he emerged triumphantly from the thicket, bearing his prize, and without paying the penalty of a single sting.
“My! but that’s a mad crowd inside there,” he exclaimed. “Sounds like the buzz-saw over at Lem Barton’s tide-mill. Guess they’ll liven things up a bit at the dance. Perhaps some other folks will be stuck-up to-morrow.”
The furious buzzing quieted, however, after he had gone about a quarter of a mile, and he reflected that perhaps the wasps, cut off from a fresh supply of air, might die on the way. So he took out his knife again and stabbed several holes in the nest, with the thick blade; whereupon the angry remonstrances of the prisoners was resumed, to his satisfaction.
This time, however, he did not venture along the highway, but made his way slowly back to the town hall through the woods and pastures. After a time he came to where the lights of the hall gleamed through the bushes, and the thin but vigorous scraping of Uncle Billy’s fiddle sounded from the stage. He put down his burden and made a stealthy reconnaissance as far as the rear sheds of the hall. Some men were about there, so he waited for a favourable opportunity.