116 THE FATE OF JOHNSON. 



swarm of bees, and but for a net veil I luckily 

 have with me, my face would be savagely attacked 

 and my skin rapidly converted into a kind of 

 wire gauze. I pick, as do each of the packers 

 accompanying me, large bunches of leafy twigs, 

 and whirling them round and round, strive, 

 though vainly, to sweep the vexatious intruders 

 away. My heart is really grieved to see the . 

 poor suffering animals obliged, spite of every 

 effort of tail, legs, and ears, to bear the torture 

 without even the proverbial relief of a ' grin.' 

 One good little mule, we call him Johnson (that 

 being the name of his late master), grows fagged, 

 as mules very frequently do, and when in that 

 condition neither force nor persuasion is of the 

 slightest use to induce them, to ' move on : ' all 

 you can do is to unpack and distribute the load 

 amongst the other mules, leaving the tired animal 

 on the trail. After camping and supper over, a 

 packer rides back after the missing mule, and 

 usually has no difficulty in bringing him into 

 camp. Poor Johnson is unpacked and left on 

 the trail, and as we camp very soon after leaving 

 him, two packers at once go in pursuit. Short, 

 however, as the time and distance are, it is 

 with immense trouble they slowly get him into 

 camp. Such a pitiable sight as the poor beast 



