"Grant, for God's sake knock this bee off my neck," he pleaded; "it's
stinging hell out of me"; but every time I made a move to help him, the
Major roared, "Get that angle on, Grant; get your range on, McLean." And
we had to take our medicine. Parker, who was passing shells, was in the
same plight as the rest of us; his hands were covered with the sugary
fluid that had settled between the copper splinters of the driving bands
on the shells and the slivers were slitting his hands. This is a
necessary accompaniment that the men passing the shells into the gun
have to contend with, and ordinarily it is a sore and painful piece of
business, but in conjunction with the swarm of the bees it was simply
hellish.
A change of angle was momentarily expected from the observer; we had
been looking for it for some minutes, and the Major was beginning to
rave and rant, very much like a theater manager when the star has not
yet put in her appearance and the impatient audience on the outside are
giving vent to catcalls. He could stand it no longer and ran as fast as
his legs would carry him over to the telephonist's hut; there he found
Graham crouching alongside of his telephone in the folds of a blanket
over his head and face.
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