BOUT a week after the events recorded in the preceding chapter, old man Bishop, just at dusk one evening, rode up to Pole Baker's humble domicile.
Pole was in the front yard making a fire of sticks, twigs, and chips.
“What's that fer?” the old man questioned, as he dismounted and hitched his horse to the worm fence.
“To drive off mosquitoes,” said Pole, wiping his eyes, which were red from the effects of the smoke. “I 'll never pass another night like the last un ef I kin he'p it. I 'lowed my hide was thick, but they bored fer oil all over me from dark till sun-up. I never 've tried smoke, but Hank Watts says it's ahead o' pennyr'yal.”
“Shucks!” grunted the planter, “you ain't workin' it right. A few rags burnin' in a pan nigh yore bed may drive 'em out, but a smoke out heer in the yard 'll jest drive 'em in.”
“What?” said Pole, in high disgust. “Do you expect me to sleep sech hot weather as this is with a fire nigh my bed? The durn things may eat me raw, but I 'll be blamed ef I barbecue myse'f to please 'em.”
Mrs. Baker appeared in the cabin-door, holding two of the youngest children by their hands. “He won't take my advice, Mr. Bishop,” she said. “I jest rub a little lamp-oil on my face an' hands an' they don't tetch me.” Pole grunted and looked with laughing eyes at the old man.
“She axed me t'other night why I'd quit kissin' 'er,” he said. “An' I told 'er I didn't keer any more fer kerosene than the mosquitoes did.”