78 THE BEE-MASTER OF WARRILOW 
thousand of them, maybe; and we shall need 
all our armour to-day. Only wait till they find 
us out! But now rub your hands all over with 
this.”’ 
Every man scrambled into his veil, and anointed 
his hands with the oil of wintergreen—the one 
abiding terror of vindictive bees. And then the 
real business of the day commenced. 
The bee-master had strapped on his climbing- 
irons. Now he struck his way slowly up the tree, 
tapping the wood with the butt-end of a hatchet 
inch by inch as he went. At last he found what he 
wanted, The trunk rang hollow about a dozen feet 
from the ground. Immediately he began to cut it 
away. The noise of the hatchet woke all the echoes 
of the forest. The chips came fluttering to the 
earth. The rich murmur overhead changed to an 
angry buzzing. In a moment the bees were on the 
worker in a vortex of humming fury, covering his 
veil, his clothes, his hands. But he worked on 
unconcernedly until he had driven a large hole 
through the crust of the tree and laid bare the 
glistening honeycomb within. Now I saw him take 
from a sling-bag at his side handful after handful 
of some yellow substance and heap it into the 
cavity he had made. Then he struck a match, 
lighted the stuff, and came sliding swiftly to earth 
again. We all drew off and waited. 
“That,” explained the bee-master, as he leaned 
on his woodman’s axe out of breath, “is cotton- 
waste, soaked in creosote, and then smothered in 
powdered brimstone. See! it is burning famously. 
The fumes will soon fill the hollow of the tree and 
settle the whole company. Then we shall cut away 
