"Dead Eagles! but François will," remarked Jay.
"There, now, a little harder--use your strength, Muskwa!"
The Bear pressed his great weight on the springs; they slipped down, and the jaws slowly opened like the sides of a travelling-bag. With a cry of delight Carcajou pulled his bruised fingers out, and in gratitude rubbed his short little Coon-like head against Bruin's great cheek. "Good old Muskwa!" he cried joyfully; "I'll never forget this."
"Your fingers will be a long time sore, then," sneered Jay.
"Never--mind--little friend. It's all right; let me go--to sleep now, don't--don't bother;" and he flopped over like a bag of potatoes, sighed wearily once or twice, and started off with a monotonous, bubbling snore. "He's hopeless," moaned the King. "We'll never get him home."
"I saw François just like that once," chirped Whisky-Jack; "he had some medicine in a bottle, and the more of it he took the sleepier he got."
"How in the name of Many Birds shall we ever get him back to his hole?" asked Black Fox, perplexedly.
"I'll carry him," declared the Moose. "Here, you Fellows, roll him up on my horns;" and dropping to his knees Mooswa put the great, chair-like spread of his antlers down to the snow.
"Come, Pisew, give us a hand," commanded the King. Beaver, and Lynx, and Rof, and Black Fox shouldered and pushed at the huge black ball, and Mooswa kept edging his horn-cradle in under the mass, until finally Muskwa lay snugly in the hollow.
"Now all give a mighty push, and help me up!" snuffed the Moose. "All right," he added, staggering to his feet, and pointing his nose skyward, allowing the burdened antlers to lie along his withers.