A burly figure in a big overcoat stood in the deep shadow confronting him.
Mr. Penrose was bare-footed and his soles were tender but he advanced far enough to bring the pole down with a thwack upon the head of the intruder.
"Woof! Woof!"
The answer raised his hair and galvanized his whiskers.
"Woof! Woof!" A great paw fanned the air—he could feel the wind from it plainly as it reached out to cuff him—and the claws on the end of it tore the front of the flannel shirt in which he slept to ribbons.
"Woof! Woof!" And then a roar that reverberated through the timber.
Mr. Penrose swore afterward that the hot breath of the brute was in his face, but the statement is open to question since at the first "Woof!" he had fallen into his tent backward.
No one dreamed of the adventure Mr. Penrose was having until he appeared among them with his shirt bosom in shreds and trembling like an aspen. In one hand he carried a sizeable chunk of bacon.
"This," he cried, brandishing it, "is what I found tied to my teepee!"
The explanation was obvious, someone had baited his tent for bear on purpose, and, since there was no way of obtaining evidence against the culprit, Mr. Penrose in his unreasoning rage accused everybody.