The clouds had not all passed by as the pedestrians found to their cost,
for, where there are clouds over the bush in July, there also are
mosquitoes. Physically as well as psychically, Wilkinson was
thin-skinned, and afforded a ready and appetizing feast to the
blood-suckers. His companion still smoked his pipe in defence, but for a
long time in silence. "The multitude of flies" made him gurgle
occasionally, as he gazed upon the schoolmaster, whose blue and yellow
silk handkerchief was spread over the back of his head and tied under
his chin. To quote Wordsworth then would have been like putting a match
to a powder magazine. The flies were worst on the margin of a pond
formed by the extension of a sluggish black stream. "Go on, Wilks, my
boy, out of the pests, while I add some water plants to my collection;"
but this, Wilkinson's chivalrous notions of friendship would not allow
him to do. He broke off a leafy branch from a young maple, and slashed
it about him, while the botanist ran along the edge of the pond looking
for flowers within reach. As usual, they were just out of reach and no
more.
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