The big moose that had not yet seen them, stepped from the trees into full view, outlining itself on a jutting headland, as it looked across the sheet of water.
Even the impassive guide was moved to admiration. A finer sight was never beheld. The moose was a very giant of its kind. With its huge bulk towering on the rocky point, its immense palmated antlers uplifted, its attitude that of expectant attention, it presented a picture that could never be forgotten.
Frank Merriwell lifted the camera, carefully focused it on the big beast and pressed the button.
He was about to repeat the performance when something stirred in the trees a hundred yards or more to the left, and Hans Dunnerwust came into view.
He did not see the canoe and its occupants, but he saw the moose, and he stopped stock still, as if in doubt whether to retreat or proceed on his way.
The moose had turned and was looking straight at him, with staring, fear-filled eyes. Then it wheeled with surprising quickness for so large a beast and shambled off the headland toward the water’s edge.
This increased Hans’ courage. He was always very brave when anything showed fear of him. He had been on the point of turning in flight, but now he sprang clear of the trees, and ran toward the moose with a shout.
“A teer! A teer! Another teer!” he screeched, waving has hand and his gun.
Merriwell snapped the camera on the moose as it scrambled down the slope.
“Might have another negative of it standing, if Hans hadn’t put in an appearance,” he declared, feeling at the moment as if he wished he might give the Dutch boy a good shaking.