“Good gracious!” ejaculated Neal and Dol together.
“Is the moose ever dangerous, Herb?” asked the former.
“I guess he is pretty often. Sometimes a bull-moose will turn on a hunter, and make at him full tilt, if he’s in danger or finds himself tricked. And he’ll always fight like fury to protect his mate from any enemy. The bulls have awful big duels between themselves occasionally. When they’re real mad, they don’t stop for a few wounds. They prod each other with their terrible brow antlers till one or the other of ’em is stretched dead. If a moose ever charges you, boys, take my advice, and don’t try to face him with your rifles. Half a dozen shots mightn’t stop him. Make for the nearest tree, and climb for your lives. Fire down on him then, if you can. But once let him get a kick at you with his forefeet, and one thing is sure—you’ll never kick again. Are you tired of moose-talk yet?”
“Not by a jugful!” answered Cyrus, laughing. “But tell us, Herb, how are we to proceed to get a sight of this ‘Jabberwock’ alive?”
“If to-morrow night happens to be dead calm, I might try to call one up,” answered the guide. “There’s a pretty good calling-place near the south end of the lake. As this is the height of the season, we might get an answer there. We’ll try it, anyhow, if you’re willing.”
“Willing! I should say we are!” answered Garst. “You’re our captain now, Herb, and it’s a case of ‘Follow my leader!’ Take us anywhere you like, through jungles or mud-swamps. We won’t kick at hardships if we can only get a good look at his mooseship. Up to the present, except for that one moonlight peep, he has always dodged me like a phantom.”
“Are you going to be satisfied with a look?” The guide’s eyes narrowed into two long slits, on which the firelight quivered, as he gazed quizzically down upon Cyrus. “If the moose comes within reach of our shots, ain’t anybody going to pump lead into him? Or is he to get off again scot-free? I’ve got my moose for this season, and I darsn’t send my bullets through the law by dropping another, so I can’t do the shooting.”
“My friends can please themselves,” said the Bostonian, glancing at the English lads. “For my own part I’ll be better pleased if Mr. Moose manages to keep a whole skin. Our grand game is getting scarce enough; I don’t want to lessen it. I once saw the last persecuted deer in a county, after it had been badgered and wounded by men and dogs, limp off to die alone in its native haunts. The sight cured me of bloodthirst.”
“I guess ’twould be enough to cure any man,” responded Herb. “And we don’t want meat, so this time we won’t shoot our moose after we’ve tricked him. Good land! I wouldn’t like any fellow to imitate the call of my best girl, that he might put a bullet through me. Come, boys, it’s pretty late; let’s fix our fire, and turn in.”
