“Oh! he knocked him over!” shrieked Step Hen, who had managed in some mysterious way to get possession of his own gun, and was visibly disappointed because it began to look as though he could not make use of it.
“Bumpus has killed a grizzly!” shouted Giraffe; and then, quick on the heels of this exultant cry he added: “no he ain’t, either! Look at him gettin’ up on all fours again! Now he’s sighted us, fellers! Here he comes, licketty-split! A tree for mine! They told us grizzlies couldn’t climb trees, you know.”
Giraffe was as good as his word. He seemed to fairly fly over to the nearest tree, and the way those supple long legs wrapped around the slender trunk was a sight worth seeing.
A panic broke out among the rest, especially when Thad shouted:
“Get up a tree, everybody! Quick, now, he’s coming right along!”
Now, Step Hen had his rifle, and knew that it could be depended on to do its work, provided the marksman himself was there with the good aim. Step Hen did not have full confidence in his ability to plant a bullet where it would do the most execution. Besides, the sight of that savage monster lumbering along, and looking so very fierce, gave poor Step Hen an attack of the “rattles.”
When he heard the scoutmaster call out for every one to hunt a tree, Step Hen felt that he must be included in that order. If all the others climbed to safety, it would be the height of folly for him to remain below.
And not wanting to play the part of Casibianca, the boy who “stood on the burning deck, whence all but him had fled,” Step Hen, dropping his gun as he ran, made for a tree that seemed to offer all the advantages of home.
Just ahead of him was Bumpus, gripping a limb with a desperation born of despair, and struggling furiously to get one of his fat legs entwined above, when he might hope to pull himself up.
Step Hen had no trouble in mounting on his side of the tree.