“No,” said Rose, abstractedly. She was watching the canoe, as in successive drops it came toward them around the curve.
“What set that great boulder on this beach, I wonder!” said Ned. “Rufus he says, it’s what he calls conglomerate, and that there is none near by.”
“The ice, I suppose,” said Rose. “Ask papa.”
The rock was some eight feet high, rounded and smooth, except toward the waterside, where it was broken and splintered.
“Where are the men? That fire is too large.”
“They are in the wood after birch bark. I’ll see to the fire.”
“By Jove!” he cried, and bounded to his feet. “Look sharp, Rose!” And, giving her a hand, he helped her to rise. She looked about in dismay, for this thing had happened: Jack had suddenly spied a small bear cub, an awkward, black little bruin, sprawling over the round stones at one end of the beach, between him and the water. It was not much bigger than a well-grown kitten. He had it by one hind leg in an instant, and was roaring with the fun of his capture, the capture grunting dolorously. As Ned spoke, Jack saw the troubled mother-bear come out of the wood, and, a moment in doubt, hesitate among the bushes. Ned dragged his sister toward the water, as the bear, fiercely growling, began to move toward them. As for Jack, he was away around the boulder, and in an instant upon top, the young bear giving him a smart nip, as he stood on the summit, flushed, resolute, and laughing.
“Fling it down!” cried Ned, with good sense. But Jack was otherwise minded, hardly taking in the peril for Rose and Ned. Dick had dashed into the wood, calling wildly to the men.
“Let it go!” cried Rose. Then there was a loud cry from the river:
“Drop it, you fool!”