“Clean shot, Master Jack!”
“By George!” cried the boy. “What fun! I thought—I was awful afraid you meant to shoot him yourself.”
“That is not my way with my friends. I hate selfish sportsmen. When you have killed as many bears as I have, we will toss up for the first shot. He is dead enough.” And Carington nudged the beast in the ribs with his gun-barrel.
Jack inspected his prey with care. “We must get his skin.”
“Of course. Got a knife?”
“Yes.”
“Then help me.”
It was a long business, and the sun was well down when they were done, and the skin packed in a tight roll on Carington’s back.
“We will hang up the meat and send up for it early to-morrow. It is poor, at best. Come, Jack. I think you are an inch taller. You have killed a bear!”
“Just haven’t I?” said the boy.