“He’ll kill him,” Lawrence whispered.
Did he? Strange to say, as the wolf came near, the beaver did not stir from his place. This appeared to surprise the wolf, who did not at once rush in for the kill. Sneaking up close, he made a dash at the beaver, but stopped just short of his goal. Still the beaver did not move. To the boys this seemed strange. Their respect for the old fellow grew by leaps and bounds. He appeared to be saying, “What’s a wolf that one should fear him?”
“He—he’s great!” Johnny shrilled.
“Magnificent,” Lawrence agreed.
Snarling low, the wolf began dashing and snapping at the beaver. Each snap made him bolder. Now his ugly jaws were three feet from the apparently defenseless hero of wild life, who had decided to give his life for his home and his people. Now he was only two feet away. And now only a foot.
“We—we’d better step in,” came from Lawrence.
“Wait,” Johnny gripped his arm hard. Perhaps he should stop the wolf, but he waited, fascinated.
“Now!” Lawrence caught his breath. The end, he was sure, had come.
And then, of a sudden, things did happen, but not in accord with expectations. Old Napoleon had chisel-shaped teeth that cut wood like a hatchet. Without a sound, as the wolf, having grown bold, snapped in his very face, he shot forward to close those murderous teeth over the wolf’s closed jaws.
“Great Scott!” Johnny muttered.