"He must have a bullet-proof hide," the boy panted, loath to admit that he had missed so often.
"Better gim me dat rifle, Cap'n Ted. Won't do to waste so much 'munition."
"Well, didn't the men shoot thirteen times before they brought down that bear the other night?"
"I's sho 'fraid you can't hit 'im."
"Well, I can keep on trying," the now irritated boy said sharply. "I'm the hunter—not you. You're the cook."
This silenced July, except for continuing expressions of eagerness to see the finish. The persistent boy kept firing and, at last, at the eleventh shot, the big game was seen to sway to one side, as if loosening its grip on the branches. Then the heavy body came crashing down.
"I got him! I got him!" cried Ted, wildly excited.
July fingered the prize, roughly estimating its length and weight, but Ted was chiefly interested in the five bullet holes in the creature's side, proving that his aim was much better than at first appeared.
After they had returned to camp and Hubert had listened appreciatively to the great news, Ted's elation suddenly gave place to misgiving and regret. The boy fell silent and looked troubled, as he recalled that the bear was not needed for food and that the great bulk of its flesh would be wasted. But when the slackers trooped into the fire-lit circle after nightfall the boy sprang to his feet and proudly announced:
"Mr. Hardy, I've got a bear skin for you, if you want it."