Ian did not reply at once, but shook his head gravely.
“If you and Rollin had not been here,” he said, “I should have been dead by this time. No, Vic, no. Do you think I would present Elsie with a collar thus procured? The bear belongs to you and Rollin, for it seems to me that both shots have been equally fatal. You shall divide the claws between you, I will have none of them.”
There was bitterness in poor Ian’s spirit, for grizzly bears were not to be fallen in with every day, and it might be that he would never have another opportunity. Even if he had, what could he do?
“I don’t believe I could hit a house if it were running,” he remarked that night at supper. “My only chance will be to wait till the bear is upon me, shove my gun into his mouth, and pull the trigger when the muzzle is well down his throat.”
“That would be throttling a bear indeed,” said Victor, with a laugh, as he threw a fresh log on the fire. “What say you, Rollin?”
“It vould bu’st de gun,” replied the half-breed, whose mind, just then, was steeped in tobacco smoke. “Bot,” he continued, “it vould be worth vile to try. Possiblement de bu’stin’ of de gun in his troat might do ver vell. It vould give him con—con—vat you call him? De ting vat leetil chile have?”
“Contrariness,” said Victor.
“Contradictiousness,” suggested Ian; “they’re both good long words, after your own heart.”
“Non, non! Con—convulsions, dat is it. Anyhow it vould injure his digestiveness.”
“Ha! ha! yes, so it would,” cried Victor, tossing off a can of cold water like a very toper. “Well, boys, I’m off to sleep, my digestiveness being uninjured as yet. Good-night.”