“Sure,” lied Morton; “I’ve hunted bear there.”
“Oh, I say, bear now! My brother’s never written m—”
“Oh, that was way up in the northern part, in the Big Woods. I’ve had some narrow escapes.”
Then Morton, who had never been west of Pittsburg, sang somewhat in this wise the epic of the hunting he had never done:
Alone. Among the pines. Dead o’ winter. Only one shell in his rifle. Cold of winter. Snow—deep snow. Snow-shoes. Hiking along—reg’lar mushing—packing grub to the lumber-camp. Way up near the Canadian border. Cold, terrible cold. Stars looked like little bits of steel.
Mr. Wrenn thought he remembered the story. He had read it in a magazine. Morton was continuing:
Snow stretched out among the pines. He was wearing a Mackinaw and shoe-packs. Saw a bear loping along. He had—Morton had—a .44-.40 Marlin, but only one shell. Thrust the muzzle of his rifle right into the bear’s mouth. Scared for a minute. Almost fell off his snow-shoes. Hardest thing he ever did, to pull that trigger. Fired. Bear sort of jumped at him, then rolled over, clawing. Great place, those Minnesota Big—
“What’s a shoe-pack?” the Englishman stolidly interjected.
“Kind of a moccasin…. Great place, those woods. Hope your brother gets the chance to get up there.”
“I say, I wonder did you ever meet him? Scrabble is his name, Jock Scrabble.”