“It isn’t snakes!” cried Cleo.  “I almost wish it were.  Oh, aren’t they horrible!  Run, girls, run back, or you’ll be eaten up!” and she beat such a hasty retreat, meanwhile wildly flinging her arms up and around her head, that she collided with Margaret, and nearly toppled her into a sassafras bush.

“Oh, I feel ’em, too!” Margaret cried.  “Oh, what pests!”

“What in the world is the matter?” demanded Grace, from the rear.  “If we’re ever going to fish let’s get to the water.”

“I’m never going to fish if I have to fight such things as these!” cried Cleo.  “Back!  Back to the tents!”

“What is it?” cried Captain Clark.  “Are you girls fooling?”

But a moment later, as she felt herself attacked on hands and face, she realized what it was.

“The flying squadron!” she exclaimed.  “We must retreat, girls, and get ammunition.  I forgot about these.”

“The flying squadron?  What does she mean?” murmured Cleo, to whom knowledge had not yet come.

CHAPTER XX

CLEO’S EXPERIMENT

Only a moment or two longer were necessary to acquaint Cleo with the cause of the precipitate retreat not only of her three chums, but Captain Clark as well.

“Go on, Cleo!  Turn around and hurry back to camp,” directed the Captain.  “We must get the citronella bottle.”

“I doubt if that will be of any use,” said Margaret, beating herself frantically on the face with her hands.  “These are terrible—­worse than mosquitoes.”

“Oh, it’s bugs, is it?” asked Cleo.  “Ouch!  I should say it was!  What are they?” she cried, as she felt stinging pains on her hands and face.

“Not bugs, merely black flies,” declared Captain Clark.  “I did not know there were any in these woods this year, but this must be a sudden and unexpected visitation of them.  My friends said nothing about the pests.  We simply can’t go on if they are to oppose us.”

So back they went to camp, the pesky black flies buzzing all around them, biting whenever they got the chance, and that was frequently enough—­too much so the girls voted.

“Dat ar citron stuff ain’t gwine goin’ do much good, ef dey is de real black flies,” asserted Zeb, when he heard the story.

“What is good, then?” asked Margaret.  “A smudge,” promptly answered Cleo.  “Don’t you know what it says in our hand book?  If citronella won’t work, try a smudge, and make it of green cedar branches.”

“Good memory in a good cause,” said Captain Clark, rubbing her smarting areas.  “But any sort of smoke will drive them away.  A brisk breeze is the best disperser of flying squadrons, though, whether they be of mosquitoes or black flies.  That beats even a smudge, and is much more pleasant.”

“Yes, I don’t care to look like a ham or a flitch of bacon,” murmured Grace.  “Oh, how they sting!”

“Better put some witch hazel on,” advised Zeb.  “Dat’s whut we uses heah in camp fo’ all kinds of bites, ‘ceptin’ bee stings, and den ammonia’s de only t’ing.”