CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SMOKE CLEW.
“Bear nothing!” exclaimed the scout who held the gun.
He had instinctively elevated the weapon at the first sound of alarm from his ally; and had it been necessary Giraffe was in a position to have given a good account of himself, for he was known to be a somewhat clever shot.
Just in time, however, he had managed to get a better view of the creature that Davy had stumbled upon, losing his balance in his excitement.
“What was it, then, Giraffe, if not a bear? Don’t tell me it was a dog,” demanded the other, having righted himself after his somersault.
“Didn’t you hear him grunt as he ran away?” asked the lengthy one contemptuously; for he might have pressed the trigger of his gun only that just in time his ears had been greeted with the sound in question.
“Grunt? Great Cæsar’s ghost! was that a hog?” almost shrieked Davy.
“Just what it was, a dun-colored hog, and a rousing big critter in the bargain, let me tell you, Davy. I saw him as plain as anything, and he ran back of us, you noticed, so we won’t be apt to raise him again in a hurry.”
“But what’d an old grunter be doing out here, tell me, Giraffe?”
“Shucks! how d’ye think I’d know?” returned the other. “Expect I’m up in the hog lingo just because I did say I always wanted to understand crow talk? Why, for all we know, that hog’s been living here since last summer; or else he’s another flood victim, and got washed up like we did. They’re all doin’ it, you know.”