“Bless you, no; he’d have heard us long ago and—” began the guide; but he did not finish.
Just then there was a loud, startled “woof,” and a great crashing of dried twigs, and to their amazement a big black shape rose from the thicket and lumbered away.
The guide doubled up with laughter, for at sound and sight of the bear his companions had bolted and fled for the canoe. In their frantic haste to escape, the boys lost their footing at the top of the bank and went rolling down to the water’s edge. It was a funny sight.
“The bear was ’most as frightened as you were,” chuckled Ben. “Too bad you didn’t have your rifle, Ed, you might have had a nice shot.”
“I don’t believe I would have stayed to shoot,” Ed confessed. “But we won’t run next time—will we, George?”
“Not on your life!”
They paddled to the mouth of the brook, which flowed sluggishly into the deep, silent woods. Ben turned the canoe into it, and they were soon skimming along between rows of willows and birches which lined the shores. The stream brought them to a wide marsh, where the guide hoped to see a moose on their return toward evening.
From beneath some bushes which overhung the water a flock of ducks rose compactly bunched. George, who was in the bow with the shotgun across his knees, quickly brought it to his shoulder and fired two shots in rapid succession. Two plump ducks came tumbling down to float lifeless on the water. Another dropped slightly farther on; but it was only wounded, and it at once began flapping its way awkwardly toward shore.
“Quick, George; give him another charge, or he’ll get away!” warned Ben, swinging the canoe broadside of the stream.
Even while George hurriedly pushed the shells into the breech of his gun the rifle cracked, and Ed had severed the head of the duck from its body.