116 THE FATE OF JOHNSON, 
swarm of bees, and but for a net veil [ 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 
