Billy had reached a point where he could see the entrance clearly. A few belated stragglers were hurrying home with the last of the day’s spoils. Extending down from the entrance was a crack which widened slightly just opposite Billy’s position, and through it he got a glimpse of weather-stained comb. The temptation was too great to be resisted. Working out on a branch of the spruce he managed to reach over to the tree and with his knife split off a sliver on one side of the crack. Then things happened.
Spud, impatiently waiting below, was startled by a wild yell. He looked up to see Billy descending at a rate that at first led him to think that the boy had lost his balance and was falling. In fact he was literally dropping from branch to branch. How he did it he never could tell. The last twenty feet he dropped clear, landing with a thump that for a minute knocked all the wind out of him.
Spud, genuinely concerned, hastened over to him and then for the first time realized what had happened. Billy had not come down alone. A sharp pain beneath one eye admonished Spud of the fact, and another on his chin drove the fact home. Yes, Billy had company, and the company was fighting mad.
Spud reached for Billy’s jacket and wildly fought the enemy, while Billy scrambled to his feet. Then, heedless of direction, they fled, their one thought to get as far as possible from the wrath which was being visited upon them. Crashing through the underbrush, falling over mouldering logs, barking their shins, bumping into trees in the fast gathering dusk, they ran till breath gave out.
The pursuit had been short, for the approach of night dampened the ardor of the avenging insects, and the hive had quieted down long before the boys stopped running. When finally they did stop and were convinced that they had nothing more to fear from the hot-tempered little fighters, they sat down to take account of injuries. Billy had been stung in half a dozen places on the face, four places on his hands and three on his legs. Spud had fared better, having but half a dozen in all, the most painful being the one beneath the eye, which was already puffed and swelling rapidly. Billy was considerably bruised from his fall from the tree, and Spud had scraped the skin from one shin.
Spud’s concern for Billy, excited by the latter’s fall, had given place to righteous wrath. “A pretty bee hunter you are!” he sputtered. “What in blazes was you trying to do anyway? I’ve a good mind to punch your head for getting me into this mess.”
He advanced threateningly. Then Billy’s pathetic appearance, with his bruised and swollen face, cooled his wrath as suddenly as it had blazed up.
“I guess you’ve got yours all right, all right, and don’t need nothin’ more,” he muttered. “Now let’s get out of here. This blamed eye of mine will be closed tight pretty quick. Gee, how those little duffers can sting!”
Billy had “got his.” There was no doubt about that. The stings were paining him acutely and he was stiff and sore from his bruises. But underneath his happy-go-lucky, careless disposition was the stuff from which true manhood is built. It showed now.
“Spud,” he said slowly, “it’s my fault all the way through. It’s my fault that we came out of bounds, and it’s all my fault that we got stung. I’m sorry, and when we get back to camp I’m going straight to the big chief and tell him that I’m to blame.”