It was not until the moon appeared––a red, ominous segment of a disk––over the black and rugged ridge of the hills across the lake, that Jabe began to call. Three times he set the hollow birch-bark to his mouth, and sent the hoarse, appealing summons echoing over the water. And the man, crouching invisible in the thick shadow beside him, felt a thrill in his nerves, a prickling in his cheeks, at that mysterious cry, which seemed to him to have something almost of menace in its lure. Even so, he thought, might Pan have summoned his followers, shaggy and dangerous, yet half divine, to some symbolic revel.
The call evoked no answer of any kind. Jabe waited till the moon, still red and distorted, had risen almost clear of the ridge. Then he called again, and yet again, and again waited. From straight across the strangely-shadowed water came a sudden sharp crashing of underbrush, as if some 145 one had fallen to beating the bushes furiously with sticks.
“That’s him!” whispered Jabe. “An’ he’s a big one, sure!”
The words were not yet out of his mouth when there arose a most startling commotion in the thicket close behind them, and both men swung around like lightning, jerking up their rifles. At the same instant came an elusive whiff of pungency on the chill.
“Pooh! only a bear!” muttered Jabe, as the commotion retreated in haste.
“Why, he was close upon us!” remarked the visitor. “I could have poked him with my gun! Had he any special business with us, do you suppose?”
“Took me for a cow moose, an’ was jest a-goin’ to swipe me!” answered Jabe, rather elated at the compliment which the bear had paid to his counterfeit.
The Famous Hunter drew a breath of profound satisfaction.
“I’ll be hanged,” he whispered, “if your amiable New Brunswick backwoods can’t get up a thrill quite worthy of the African jungle!”