The moose was right behind them. Its ungainly form could be dimly seen, as it lumbered through the dense aquatic growth, bent on vengeance.
But Hank shot the boat out in deep water, then quickly turned. The jacklight was again directed toward the moose.
Its rays were barely in time to reveal a most unexpected sight. The animal suddenly staggered and fell.
Dick Travers' shot, together with the wounds received in battle, had proved too much for the gallant old beast, whose eyes glared defiance to the last.
"Hurrah!" cried the official photographer, in a wild burst of enthusiasm. "Oh, Christopher! Isn't this a piece of luck? Got a picture and brought down a moose—how's that, Dave, old boy?" and in his delight, he slapped his friend vigorously on the shoulder. "Ain't I a hunter, eh?"
"Yes, lad, didn't do bad," put in Hank, kindly, "but if the ole critter hadn't had that tussle—wal—you'd be a heap wetter'n you are now, an' the boat might have been smashed ter bits."
"I say, Hank, could—I—I get the antlers?" asked Dick, breathlessly.
"Sartin, my lad. I'll fix 'em fur ye. I'd best be gittin' ter work right away, too."
Hank Merwin's sharp hunting-knife began to do wonders. He cut and slashed in a manner which showed his familiarity with such work. Finally, the head, skin and several choice pieces of meat lay in the bottom of the boat.
"To-morrer we'll come over an' finish the job," declared Hank. "Ye sartingly were in luck, lads. It was a sight that many an ole stager in the woods ain't seen."