“Better take them, Alan, there's a hard winter coming on.”
“Mac an' Diabhoil!” cried Alan, in a shrill voice, suddenly bursting into fury. “I will be having your heart's blood,” he cried, rushing into his cabin.
“Come on, Hughie,” cried Don, and away they rushed, following the black dogs upon the trail of the bear.
Deeper and deeper into the swamp the dogs led the way, the going becoming more difficult and the underbrush thicker at every step. After an hour or two of hard work, the dogs began to falter, and ran hither and thither, now on one scent and then on another, till tired out and disgusted, Don held them in, and threw himself down upon the soft moss that lay deep over everything.
“We're on his old tracks here,” said Don, savagely, “and you can't pick out the new from the old.”
“His hole must be somewhere not too far away,” said Hughie.
“Yes, perhaps it is, but then again it may be across the ridge. At any rate, we'll have some grub.”
As they ate the bannocks and cheese, they pictured to themselves what they should do if they ever should come up with the bear.
“One thing we've got to be careful of,” said Don, “and that is, not to lose our heads.”
“That's so,” assented Hughie, feeling quite cool and self-possessed at the time.