They were in the midst of their frolic when Tom heard a chain rattle, up toward the woods. Something was moving among the stumps—another bear.
“Good-by, Pomp,” shouted Tom, letting his shaggy playmate down rather unceremoniously on all fours. “I must call on your cousin, over there.”
Pomp gazed at him with what Tom afterward declared was a most meaning look in his twinkling eyes, and galloped after him—only to be jerked sprawling at the end of his tether. Then he sat down, after the manner of his kind, and watched the retreating form of the dispenser of sugar, shaking his head gloomily.
“I’ll save a lump for you and be back before long, old fellow,” called Tom encouragingly over his shoulder.
The cinnamon proved to be double the size of his black neighbor. Instead of ambling up to his visitor as the other had done, he retreated a pace or two, and eyed him with such an unpleasant expression that Tom stopped short.
“Come, Brownie,” said he, in his most cajoling tones. “Here’s some sugar for you.” And he tossed him a lump.
Cinnamon stretched out his paw, raked the lump nearer, and bolted it. The taste was pleasing, and he slowly advanced, dragging his heavy chain after him.
“Friendly enough,” said Tom to himself. “I’ll try him with a lump in my hand.”