“Don’t tell me there are bees here, too!” gasped Margaret.

“Oh, dey don’t bodder you much,” chuckled Zeb, as he brought out what Cleo described, later, as the germs of a drug store.

There were several bottles, one—­containing oil of citronella, and another witch hazel.  This last was applied to the girls’ wounds first, and did relieve, in a measure, the sting of the bites of the black flies.  Then a film of citronella was spread over hands and faces, and a bottle of the pungent mixture was carried along as the Girl Scouts took the trail again, since it was voted that a fish of their own taking must be served for supper.

“It would never do to go back from camp and tell the other girls we didn’t catch anything,” declared Grace, and the others readily agreed.

The black flies had not followed them back to camp, perhaps because the tents were in the open, where the breeze could sweep around them.  But, in spite of the citronella, the party was again attacked by the “flying squadron” as they started for the fishing place.

“It’s no use!  We can’t make it.  No sense being all bitten up for a few fish!” declared Madaline, as she made use of the bottle of oil Captain Clark handed her.  “They seem to like it!”

And, really, the black flies did.  Mosquitoes are not quite so fond of this oily extract of an Indian plant, and if the user does not object to the odor, he can keep himself pretty well protected from the mosquitoes by frequent applications of the stuff.

Black flies, however, are not always affected by it, and a smudge is then the only answer to the problem.

“But maybe Zeb can tell us a place to fish where there aren’t so many of the pests,” said Captain Clark, as they turned back.  “It is simply impossible to go on this way.”

Zeb and his wife listened to the stories of the Scouts with sympathy, and Zeb declared that while the place he had selected for them was the best fishing spot, another might be tried, which was more in the open, subject to the grateful sweep of breezes, and, in that case, not so likely to be infested with the pests.  The clouds of bites they seemed to greet the girls with, had been nothing short of an air raid, or bombardment.

“Well, let’s try it,” suggested Cleo.  “I don’t care as long as I catch one fish, and maybe the new place will be fortified.”

“I wishes yo’ luck!” murmured Zeb.

So they set off this time in another direction, which led them to a clearing, and there, to their delight, they found no black flies.  There were a few mosquitoes, but the citronella took care of them, or, rather drove them off, and soon the lines were in the water, with the bobs floating about.

For the True Treds were not yet in the scientific fishing class, and a cork float was voted the best means of telling when one might have a bite.  It seemed the girls were scarcely settled when the signal came.