The boys had pushed their way out along the branches as far from the trunk as possible, and just at this moment the branch on which Harry French was moving suddenly cracked, broke, and he found himself lying face down full length on the ground about twenty feet from the foot of the tree. The bear heard the crash and, seeing one of his enemies thus delivered into his hands, scrambled hastily back down the tree and started toward Harry. There was only one thing for the boy to do, and, being a Scout, he did it; he lay perfectly still.
The bear, surprised at the quiet of the motionless figure, hesitated just a moment, but that was long enough for Jack Danby, who was perched on a branch just overhead, to decide what to do.
His plan was only a forlorn hope and he knew if it failed it probably meant the loss of his life as well as Harry’s, but what could he do? “A Scout is brave.” And he simply could not stay there and see Harry, dear old Harry, attacked without an effort at least being made to save him.
It was a time for desperate measures. With a silent prayer for help, he jumped quickly and landed, as he had schemed to do, squarely upon the bear’s back. Now Jack was no featherweight. Nearly nineteen years old, he was tall and well developed, weighing much more than an ordinary young fellow of his age.
The effect upon the bear was startling. When this weight came crashing down upon him like a thunderbolt, he was seized with consternation, and, forgetting everything else in his panic, he rushed away as fast as his legs could carry him, and that was very fast, for, though a bear’s movements give an impression of clumsiness, he can move like a streak, as many a one has learned to his cost when trying to escape. Jack, who had rolled over and over, jumped up quickly and ran to where Harry still lay, not daring to move. His fall had shaken him badly, but no bones were broken, although now that the danger was over the terrific strain made him tremble like a leaf.
The Scouts had joyfully watched the bear out of sight and, fearing that he might recover from his fright and return, slid down the tree and all started off thankfully for the camp.
Their path led along a natural hedge of high-growing bushes, and suddenly they heard gruff voices on the other side. They caught the name of Flannigan, the foreman, coupled with an oath. The words that followed halted them in their tracks and they stood like statues.
CHAPTER VI
THE PLOT
“Zen we shall knife heem—we shall keel heem!” came over the hedge in accents undeniably French.
“Naw!” was the reply, in a heavy brogue. “We won’t kill him—that would be too aisy fur him! He’ll sweat more if yer let him live. We’ll do fur him! We’ll fix him so that it’ll be many and many a long day before he’ll set foot to the ground, and thin, begorra, mayhap wan foot will be farther from the ground than the ither!”