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They broke up as they murmured, and disappeared among the other bees, from whom, of course, they were undistinguishable. "Seems as if we'd have to chew scrap-wax for these pillars, after all," said a worker. "Not by a whole comb," cried the young bee who had broken the cluster. "Listen here! I've studied the question more than twenty minutes. It's as simple as falling off a daisy.
The youngsters told off to the pillars had refused to chew scrap-wax because it made their jaws ache, and were clamouring for virgin stuff. "Anything to finish the job!" said the badgered Guards. "Hang up, some of you, and make wax for these slack-jawed sisters." Before a bee can make wax she must fill herself with honey.
"I'd been on the Gate for three hours, and one would foul-brood the Queen herself after that. No offence meant." "None taken," Melissa answered cheerily. "I shall be on Guard myself, some day. What's next to do?" "There's a rumour of Death's Head Moths about. Send a gang of youngsters to the Gate, and tell them to narrow it in with a couple of stout scrap-wax pillars.
It'll make the Hive hot, but we can't have Death's Headers in the middle of our honey-flow." "My Only Wings! I should think not!" Melissa had all a sound bee's hereditary hatred against the big, squeaking, feathery Thief of the Hives. "Tumble out!" she called across the youngsters' quarters. "All you who aren't feeding babies, show a leg. Scrap-wax pillars for the Ga-ate!"
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