“I don’t know the first thing about bees,” protested Jamie. “I can’t take care of them. Can’t you direct me to someone who can see to your property in an intelligent way?”
“There is nothing to do,” said the Bee Master. “Keep the water pans filled. My next-door neighbour brings my food. You can sleep in my bed. You look tired and sick yourself. I am not afraid to trust a man having your touch, your face, your voice. Promise me that you will take my place until my return.”
So Jamie reached in his pocket and held out the decorations for valour before the eyes of the stricken man. He said that he had recently been discharged, that he had no home at present, that he would be glad to remain in such a friendly house and do what he could, but that he must have instructions, full instructions, as to what he must do for the bees.
The Bee Master smiled a rare and illuminating smile and sank back on the pillows as if he were content, and then he said: “Any day the little Scout may walk in, my side partner, and you can ask anything you want to know and you’ll get an intelligent answer. Margaret Cameron next door can tell you a good deal, and she is a rare cook. Tell her what you like, and help yourself to my clothes and bed.”
Then he shut his eyes and dropped over the edge into unconsciousness.
A few minutes later the ambulance came and the frame of an old man having a face suitable for a model for the
