“Give me a gun!” begged the latter again, hoarsely.
The bear turned and both boys thought it was coming around the clump of bushes to get at them. Dig uttered a squeal of fright and tumbled backwards down the hill. Chet whipped out his skinning-knife, that being the only weapon he had with him, and stood his ground.
But the bear only swung around to drop to all fours, and with a startled “Woof! woof!” he galloped away across the hill, soon disappearing in the thick jungle.
But the bear had startled something besides Digby Fordham. While Chet hugged his sides in laughter at the sight of his chum sprawling down the hill, wild snorts and a sudden clatter rose from the trail.
“Look out for the horses, Dig!” yelled Chet, breaking off his spasm of laughter in the middle.
Poke had caught a glimpse of the bear or had smelled him. The black horse flung himself back upon his strap and snapped it.
Then Chet saw the bear—a big black fellow, standing erect
“Whoa, Poke!” cried Dig, and ran quickly down the hill.
Yelling “Whoa!” to a whirlwind would have done about as much good. Poke started on a gallop, and when his master rolled down to the trail the black horse was already three lengths away.