“C-c-couldn’t mistake that feller on a d-d-dark night,” says Mark.
“It ain’t apt to matter whether we do or not,” I told him.
“N-n-n-never can tell. He’s the man that’s comin’ to help out Collins. Wish I knew what those letters and figures in that telegram were about.”
“Oh, come on, and forget about that. Let’s find out what kind of country is down that way.”
To go down-stream we had to take a path through heavy underbrush. Most of the time we had to force our way because the bushes were trying to cover the path. It wasn’t very light, and it was boggy. About a hundred yards ahead we came to a little brook that emptied into the Middle Branch, with two saplings across it for a bridge. I was going ahead. No sooner had I stepped my foot off the far end of the bridge than something began to thrash around and rustle the reeds right under my feet, and all of a sudden a little animal about as big as a dog, or maybe a cat, jumped up and whisked out of sight. He scared me almost out of my wits.
“What was that?” says I.
“That,” says Mark, “was a f-f-full-grown g-grizzly bear.”
“G’wan!” says I. “There ain’t no bears around here.”
“Maybe not,” says Mark, in a whisper, “but there’s something else.” He pointed, and there, across the stream, not more than a couple of hundred feet off, were two little deer and a big one.
Well, it startled all of us. Somehow until then we didn’t realize we really were in the woods—the real, genuine, wild woods where big animals might be. I thought over what I’d said about bears and sort of changed my mind.