Dick hurried to the bough where they had hung the flour and bacon. “Hey, look here—Sandy, Toma!”
They joined Dick. The bough had been broken down; the flour was scattered about as if the sack had exploded; the bacon was gone. Searching about in the gloom they found hunks of chewed rind among the pine needles. Only one small chunk of bacon was left, and this they preserved in one of their knapsacks.
“Him no hungry,” Toma grunted, “him play. Him chew bacon up, spit him out.”
“Well, he did us plenty of damage all right,” Dick said ruefully.
“Looks like we were in for a hungry spell,” Sandy added, resignedly.
“Humph! We have bear steak for breakfast,” Toma exclaimed significantly.
“That’s what I call justice,” Dick laughed.
All three went back to the campfire then and squatted around the crackling flames. The excitement had loosened Toma’s tongue, it seemed, and he began telling stories of other bears he had known, and whom his father had known. Dick and Sandy listened with rapt interest to the simple tales of the young Indian.
Almost the balance of the night passed with Toma’s droning voice relating thrilling adventures among the tribes in the far north. Toward dawn Sandy turned in for an hour or so of rest, but Toma and Dick remained awake.
The sun had scarcely topped the distant forest skyline when Dick and Toma awakened Sandy, and all three gathered up what they could of the wreckage remaining of their provisions.