"Maybe he can't get the top off," whispered Will.
He had hardly spoken, when, with a slight rattle, the cover fell to the ground. Will groaned. The bear paused, looked puzzled, smelled the butter suspiciously, and sat looking at it with the air of a scientific investigator.
"He thinks that it is oleomargarine," whispered Will.
But no. If Bruin did for a moment doubt the integrity of our butter, his doubts had vanished; for with one sweep of his great tongue he transferred about two pounds of it into his mouth. Will groaned. Bruin paused, and to our excited imaginations looked in our direction, as if he would have liked some boy to eat with his butter.
We remained perfectly quiet while he finished the contents of the pail. He licked out the last particle, and then carefully turned the pail over and licked off the bottom and sides. After he had satisfied himself that there was no more, he rose and looked into the spring. He seemed discontented for a moment, but the recollection of his supper brightened him up, and casting a loving glance at the empty pail, he trotted off, "the best greased b'ar in the north woods," as our guide afterward remarked.
When he had gone a safe distance, Will and I sadly picked up the pail and walked back to camp. Father was getting uneasy, and had started to meet us. When we told him our adventure, he ran back to camp, and getting the guide, dogs, and his rifle, started in pursuit of the thief.
A little later we heard a shot, and before long father returned, bringing the bear's skin, and some choice pieces of his flesh for supper. Lack of butter compelled us to break up camp next day, and notwithstanding the beautiful bear-skin rug Will and I have in our room, we never quite forgave the thief who stole our butter.