“That bear we were following,” explained Jack. “It’s outside now, and the dog has winded him. Where’s my gun? I’m going to have a potshot at him!”
He started toward the corner where he had stood up his gun. The interior of the cabin was fairly light, for Tom had snapped on the permanent switch of his little pocket electric light.
“Hold on a minute!” Tom said, placing a hand on his chum’s shoulder. “What are you going to do?”
“Don’t go out,” advised Tom. “I don’t believe it’s the bear, to begin with, and, in the second place, if it is, you wouldn’t stand any chance of hitting him in this storm. And you might get lost. It’s a regular blizzard outside.”
“What makes you think it isn’t the bear?” asked Jack, ignoring Tom’s other reasons.
“Well, from the way the dog acts, for one thing,” was the answer. “He didn’t act that way before, when we had a plain sight of the trail, and Towser may even have come close to Bruin himself.”
“If it isn’t the bear—who is it—or—what is it?” demanded George.
“I don’t know,” was Tom’s frank reply.
“Let’s give a yell,” suggested Bert. “Maybe it’s Sam Wilson, or someone who could put us on the right road. I don’t fancy staying here all night if it can be helped. Let’s give a yell.”