Part 27 (1/2)

They moved on again for a hundred yards or more; but though Blake kept a sharp lookout both above and below, he saw no game other than a few small birds and a pair of blue wood-pigeons. When he sought to creep up on the latter, they flew into the next tree. In following them, he came upon a conical mound of hard clay, nearly four feet high.

”h.e.l.lo; this must be one of those white anthills,” he said, and he gave the mound a kick.

Instantly a tiny object whirred up and struck him in the face.

”Whee!” he exclaimed, springing back and striking out. ”A hornet! No; it's a bee!”

”Did it sting you?” cried Miss Leslie.

”Sting? Keep back; there's a lot more of 'em. Sting? Oh, no; he only hypodermicked me with a red-hot darning needle! Shy around here. There's a whole swarm of the little devils, and they're hopping mad. Hear 'em buzz!”

”But where is their hive?” asked Winthrope, as all three drew back behind the nearest bushes.

”Guess they've borrowed that ant-hill,” replied Blake, gingerly fingering the white lump which marked the spot where the bee had struck him.

”Wouldn't it be delightful if we had some honey?” exclaimed Miss Leslie.

”By Jove, that really wouldn't be half bad!” chimed in Winthrope.

”Maybe we can, Miss Jenny; only we'll need a fire to tackle those buzzers. Guess it'll be as well to let them cool off a bit also. The cocoanuts are only a little way ahead now. Here; give me the pot.”

They soon came to a small grove of cocoanut palms, where Blake threw down his club and bow and handed his burning-gla.s.s to Miss Leslie.

”Here,” he said; ”you and Win start a fire. It's early yet, but I'm thinking we'll all be ready enough for oyster stew.”

”How about the meat?” asked Miss Leslie.

”Keep that till later. Here goes for our dessert.”

Selecting one of the smaller palms, Blake spat on his hands, and began to climb the slender trunk. Aided by previous experiences, he mounted steadily to the top. The descent was made with even more care and steadiness, for he did not wish to tear the skin from his hands again.

”Now, Win,” he said, as he neared the bottom and sprang down, ”leave the cooking to Miss Leslie, and husk some of those nuts. You won't more'n have time to do it before the stew is ready.”

Winthrope's response was to draw out his penknife. Blake stretched himself at ease in the shade, but kept a critical eye on his companions.

Although Winthrope's fingers trembled with weakness, he worked with a precision and rapidity that drew a grunt of approval from Blake.

Presently Miss Leslie, who had been stirring the stew with a twig, threw in a little salt, and drew the pot from the fire.

”_En avant_, gentlemen! Dinner is served,” she called gayly.

”What's that?” demanded Blake. ”Oh; sure. Hold on, Miss Jenny.

You'll dump it all.”

He wrapped a wisp of gra.s.s about the pot, and filled the three cocoanut bowls. The stew was boiling hot; but they fished up the oysters with the bamboo forks that Blake had carved some days since. By the time the oysters were eaten, the liquor in the bowl was cool enough to drink.

The process was repeated until the pot had been emptied of its contents.

”Say, but that was something like,” murmured Blake. ”If only we'd had pretzels and beer to go with it! But these nuts won't be bad.”