“It’ll be boiled in a minute or two,” said Johnny. “But tell me about those bears.”
“They’re blue, plumb blue, like a thin sky.” The old man struggled for words. “They’re right smart woolly like sheep, I reckon. But they ain’t sheep. God-a-mighty, narry a bit of it. One of them clawed my lead dog like tarnation. An’ they’re the fish-eatinest critters you most ever seed.”
“Polar bears?” Johnny suggested.
“Polar bears, big as good-sized hounds!” Smokey sniffed. “Who’s ever hearn tell of sech polar bears?”
Who indeed? Johnny was growing excited and confused. “Woolly, blue bears no bigger than dogs,” he was thinking. “What kind of bears could they be?”
In his confusion he upset the coffeepot and spilled half its contents. For all this, there was plenty left. Smokey Joe drank it piping hot, ate in a ravenous manner. Then, springing to his feet and calling to his dogs, declared he must get down to Palmer for a new pack of grub.
“He’s found a trace of color in some dashing stream that doesn’t freeze, not even in winter,” was Johnny’s conclusion. “He’s going to hotfoot it right back and get rich—maybe.”
“But, Johnny,” Lawrence was not smiling, “do you really suppose there are any such bears as he described?”
“Of course not,” was Johnny’s prompt reply.
“But, Johnny, if there were, if we caught one alive! No bigger than a dog. We could do it, Johnny. We could buy a tractor.”