“It wasn’t Shakespeare at all,” said Ralph.
“Och! no more it was. I remember now. It was the fellow who makes the matches; what’s his name?”
“Lucifer?” suggested Allan.
“No,” cried Rory; “I have it. It was Congreve. But sure I shot the beast right enough, and it was only his fun chasing me after he was dead.”
Poor Rory could laugh and make light of his adventure now, but it had been a narrow escape for him. There is no animal in the world more fierce than that dweller among rocks, the Cinnamon bear (Ursus ferox), but there is no heart more brave than an Irishman’s, and our light-hearted boy had followed one up and fired. Then, though desperately wounded, the monster gave chase. He had struck Rory down without wounding him. They were both found together, and both seemingly dead. Rory soon came round, and the bear’s skin was a beauty.
“What are you going to do with that skin, boy Rory?” asked McBain.
“Indeed, then,” replied boy Rory, “it’s a mat I’ll be after making of it for Bran’s mother.”
“Ah! you haven’t forgotten the poor old hound, then?” said Allan.
“I never forget a dog,” said Rory; “but won’t the old lady look famous lying on it before the fire of a winter’s evening!”
“We’ll have quite a cargo of furs,” said Allan.