“I guess he would have climbed the tree after you in about another minute,” Jimmie declared, with a sly wink at Ned. “You see, it’s just this way, Mr. Gilroy,” he went on, “the bears out here are hungry for fat clerks from Wall street. I’ve heard they make stews of ’em,” he concluded.
Gilroy now arose to his feet and stood gazing into the thicket in the direction of the bear’s disappearance. Jimmie’s assertion that bruin would hit the Arctic circle early the next morning seemed to give him great comfort. As the distance between the bear and himself increased, he grew braver and began throwing out his chest.
“What a chance that was for me to kill a bear!” he began, boastfully, “If I’d only had a gun with me, I might have had a fine rug made out of his hide! It would have been fine to show my friends.”
“Sure it would!” declared Jimmie. “I’m glad you didn’t remember that you had a gun in your pocket. The bears out here are pretty sensitive about being shot at. If you’d blazed away at that cub, and hadn’t shot him dead in his tracks the first time, he would have eaten you.”
Gilroy put his hand to his pistol pocket and a look of pretended amazement came over his fat face.
“Upon my word!” he said, “I thought I left my gun in the bunk!”
“After this,” Ned advised, “always keep your gun in sight when you go into the forest. Suppose there had been no tree to climb, what then?”
“I should have grappled with him, sir!” exclaimed Gilroy. “I certainly should have grappled with him.”
“You would have had to catch him first,” Jimmie grinned.
“How long since you left the camp?” Ned asked, after Jimmie had introduced the two.