The boys broke into a run, leaving Joe, more cool and probably less sanguine, to follow at his leisure. When at length he reached the spot, he found them standing with blank faces before the trap, in which was the head and shoulders of a coon, the remaining portion of the body having been eaten off.
“You mean, miserable little rat you!” exclaimed Charlie. “Nobody wanted you. What business had you to get into a bear-trap?”
“What do you suppose eat the coon?” asked John. “Foxes?”
“Foxes? no,” replied Joe. “A bear. Look at that corn,” pointing to a place where the bear, after eating the corn, had broken down the stalks, eaten some ears, bitten others, and apparently lain down and wallowed.
“Look there,” said Charlie, taking up a stalk of corn that was bloody; “that was the first one he bit, and some of the coon’s blood is on it.”
“He hasn’t done much hurt,” said Joe; “didn’t get in till most morning, or he would have done more; he’ll be sure to come back again, as he got part of a bellyful, and didn’t get enough.”
They now went to the place where they had set the gun.
“It’s gone,” screamed the boys, who had gone ahead; “there’s no gun here.”
When Joe came to the place, he found the gun gone, the stakes that had held it upset, the crotches torn from the ground, and the cod-line wound around the hills of corn, which was trampled down in all directions.
“Here’s the gun,” cried John; “it’s gone off.”