THE ARMY ANTS' HOME TOWN 63 



no over-hanging tree from which I might sus- 

 pend myself spider-wise. So I sent Sam for an 

 ordinary chair, four tin cans, and a bottle of dis- 

 infectant. I filled the tins with the tarry fluid, 

 and in four carefully timed rushes I placed the 

 tins in a chair-leg square. The fifth time I put 

 the chair in place beneath the nest, but I had mis- 

 judged my distances and had to retreat with 

 only two tins in place. Another effort, with 

 Spartan-like disregard of the fiery bites, and my 

 haven was ready. I hung a bag of vials, note- 

 book, and lens on the chairback, and, with a final 

 rush, climbed on the seat and curled up as com- 

 fortably as possible. 



All around the tins, swarming to the very edge 

 of the liquid, were the angry hosts. Close to my 

 face were the lines ascending and descending, 

 while just above me were hundreds of thousands, 

 a bushel-basket of army ants, with only the 

 strength of their thread-like legs as suspension 

 cables. It took some time to get used to my en- 

 vironment, and from first to last I was never 

 wholly relaxed, or quite unconscious of what 

 would happen if a chair-leg broke, or a bamboo 

 fell across the outhouse. 



I swiveled round on the chair-seat and counted 



