Their day of perfect peace was climaxed by a pleasant surprise just before sundown. The evening meal was over. They had settled themselves before the fire, when someone burst into the room with a low exclamation, “Moose! Over at the salt lick!”
This was a signal for a silent exit and a tiptoe march out around the stockade at the back of the lodge, across the tennis court, then into the brush to a spot where salt had been placed to lure the wild moose.
“A monster!” someone whispered, as they came in sight of the salt lick. And he was just that. With wide spreading antlers and bulging eyes, in that dim light he appeared like a very dangerous creature. Jeanne shuddered at the sight of him. And well she might.
“No cause to be afraid,” said the Commodore. “This is a game preserve. No one is allowed to shoot them. They are as tame as cattle.”
“Almost!” came from someone in the rear. Who had spoken? Later, when they tried, no one could recall.
The moose did seem tame enough. There was a camera enthusiast in the group. Slipping up close, he took time exposures. Then, growing bolder, he touched off a flash bulb. The moose looked up, glared about him, then once more began licking the salt.
“Perfect!” someone whispered.
“Almost!” came as a sort of echo.
And then peace ended. Something stirred at Jeanne’s feet. It was Plumdum. Jeanne gasped. She had left him curled up asleep by the fire. Somehow, he had got out. The dog scented the moose. The moose saw the dog. To a moose, a dog is a wolf. To a dog, moose spells danger.
Plumdum was courageous. Barking wildly, he leaped straight at the moose. Lowering his head and letting out a terrifying bellow, the moose charged the dog.