It promised to be a long task, but Phil did it, as he was in the habit of doing everything he undertook, with exactness. Lub kept on taking more fish, though whenever he found a breathing spell between bites he would amble over to watch what Phil was doing, and make remarks.
“I’ll have that skin made into a fine rug, some of these days,” he declared, as he ran his hand over the silky hair; “and every time I look at it I’ll remember what a great time I had luring the beast within range of your guns.”
“What would have been your plan of campaign, Lub, in case we had not happened to be within hailing distance?” asked Phil, looking quite innocent as he said it.
Lub gave him rather a suspicious glance, and then replied loftily:
“Oh! I don’t know. To be frank I hadn’t reached that point. Mebbe I might have used my knife, and cut the fish line, so he could grab the muscalonge. Then while he was devouring that I might have found a chance to sneak up behind and finish the rascal with one sure blow from my trusty hunting knife. Course I don’t actually say I would have done that; but it might have occurred to me, you know.”
When Phil allowed his memory to go back and recall the look of terror he had seen on Lub’s white face he decided in his own mind that there was about as much chance of such a wonderful feat being carried out as there was of Lub developing wings and flying.
“You’re getting as many fish as we can well use, I reckon, Lub?” he remarked, to change the subject.
“Sure thing, Phil; and after I pull in three more I think I’ll call it off for to-day. I’ve covered a good many miles, running from one hole to another, and back again over the whole line. I didn’t come up here to reduce myself to a shadow, you know. Over-work is a bad thing for a growing boy, they say.”
“There’s only one thing I’ll always be sorry for, Lub.”
“You mean about this bear adventure, don’t you?” asked the other, suspiciously.