When the boys stopped work and went back to their smudge to give the bees a chance to rest, and to find out if mud really drew the poison out of the little lumps that covered them, the tree had been cut nearly half through.  Any Nature-lover would have known that a beaver had been at work, while everyday folks would have suspected a saw-mill.

Dick missed Tom and at first was troubled, but finally discovered him sitting on a branch behind a tree around which he could look without making himself conspicuous.

“Shall we wait till to-morrow to finish the job?” asked Ned.

“Not much.  By to-morrow my face will be so swollen that I can’t see and the rest of me so sore that I can’t move.  Let’s make a big smudge at the foot of the tree.  I’d rather be smothered by smoke than stung and poisoned to death by those little beasts.”

[Illustration:  “A FEW OF THE HOMELESS BEES LIT ON THE COMB”]

The smudge worked and the bee hunters had no more trouble until the tree fell, when they got into the thickest of the smoke they had made.  This did not save them altogether, for the bees were very numerous and very mad and a few dozen of them got far enough in the smoke to leave their marks on their enemies.  When the insects had quieted down and were gathered in bunches on logs and stumps, looking stupidly at the wreck of their home, the boys made another smudge near the hole in the fallen tree which led to the home of the bees.  They sounded the hollow tree and found it only a shell where the honey was stored and a little work with the hatchet laid open the storehouse of the insects.  A few of the homeless bees lit on the comb they had made, other bees gathered on the cypress knees which abounded in the swamp and through which the great cypress trees breathed, but their spirit was gone and they made no attack on the destroyers of their home.  Of the comb and honey which the boys found in the tree they were able to carry away less than half and they wondered if the bees would have the sense to save what was left or if some wandering bear would scoop it in for his supper.

As the young bee hunters started for camp laden with their spoils, Tom stepped softly out of a nearby thicket, licking his chops and apparently thinking of the delicate lunch of fat tree-rat he had just eaten.

“Dick,” said Ned, as they were lazily resting against a log, after a supper that was mostly dessert, having consisted of a little smoked bear and a lot of honey, “something has got to be done for the larder.  We go for honey when we need meat.  We let Indian hens which we can get, escape on the chance of turkeys which we can never bag.  We are looking for deer that are miles away and overlooking ducks that are trying to fly into the pot.”

“I’m not overlooking much, Neddy, since that turkey biz.  I’ve got my gun in my hand this minute and here’s a chance to use it.”