Taking half a dozen hearty puffs to give him courage, Paddy quietly advanced. He had not gone three paces when—behold, curled up at his feet, a gigantic yellow bear!
“Is it there you are, me darlint?” Paddy whispers to himself. “But troth, I just remember it’s toime I was going, so good night, me dear, and bad drames to ye.”
Now Bruin has excellent scent, and Paddy’s tobacco was good and strong, so no wonder he awoke. He rose to his forepaws, opening a great red mouth that would have sheltered a coal-scuttle, and giving vent as he did so to a yawning roar that appeared to shake the very cave.
Paddy threw the almost extinct match into the gulf and fled, with Bruin at his heels.
Byarnie was very fond of Paddy O’Connell, and when his friend stayed so long away, naturally grew anxious, and finally started off to look for him. He would not take a rifle, “because,” he argued, “if Paddy wasn’t afraid, sure I’m not.” But he armed himself with that most deadly weapon, a seal club, and away he strode. On and on went the giant over the snowy hills; but Paddy’s track, that he tried for a time to follow, was as devious as a rabbit’s. When he was just about to give up in despair, who should he see but his friend himself coming round the brow of the hill—it could be nobody else.
But when Paddy disappeared suddenly from view as effectually as if he had sunk into the bowels of the earth, then no wonder big Byarnie rubbed his eyes and stared in astonishment.
Byarnie was superstitious.
“’Twas his ghost,” he thought; “poor Paddy is dead, and that was his spirit!”
And down there on his knees, under the flickering aurora, knelt big Byarnie to pray. While thus devotionally engaged, he was startled by a roar that made him feel as if the earth was going to open and swallow him, and yonder behold poor Paddy running towards him more quickly than he had ever run before, and followed by something large and yellow.
Byarnie spat on his hands, and threw away his cap.