“A moose!”

They were words to set his hands trembling and his whole body quivering with anticipation.  There was in him now none of the old hunter’s coolness, none of the almost stoical indifference with which the men of the big North hear these sounds of the wild things about them.  Rod had yet to see his first big game.

That moment came in the afternoon.  The canoe had skimmed lightly around a bend in the river.  Beyond this bend a mass of dead driftwood had wedged against the shore, and this driftwood, as the late sun sank behind the forests, was bathed in a warm yellow glow.  And basking in this glow, as he loves to do at the approach of winter nights, was an animal, the sight of which drew a sharp, excited cry from between Rod’s lips.  In an instant he had recognized it as a bear.  The animal was taken completely by surprise and was less than half a dozen rods away.  Quick as a flash, and hardly realizing what he was doing, the boy drew his rifle to his shoulder, took quick aim and fired.  The bear was already clambering up the driftwood, but stopped suddenly at the report, slipped as if about to fall back—­then continued his retreat.

“You hit ’im!” shouted Wabi.  “Quick-try ’im again!”

Rod’s second shot seemed to have no effect In his excitement he jumped to his feet, forgetting that he was in a frail canoe, and took a last shot at the big black beast that was just about to disappear over the edge of the driftwood.  Both Wabi and his Indian companion flung themselves on the shore side of their birch and dug their paddles deep into the water, but their efforts were unavailing to save their reckless comrade.  Unbalanced by the concussion of his gun, Rod plunged backward into the river, but before he had time to sink, Wabi reached over and grabbed him by the arm.

“Don’t make a move—­and hang on to the gun!” he warned.  “If we try to get you in here we’ll all go over!” He made a sign to the Indian, who swung the canoe slowly inshore.  Then he grinned down into Rod’s dripping, unhappy face.

“By George, that last shot was a dandy for a tenderfoot!  You got your bear!”

Despite his uncomfortable position, Rod gave a whoop of joy, and no sooner did his feet touch solid bottom than he loosened himself from Wabi’s grip and plunged toward the driftwood.  On its very top he found the bear, as dead as a bullet through its side and another through its head could make it.  Standing there beside his first big game, dripping and shivering, he looked down upon the two who were pulling their canoe ashore and gave, a series of triumphant whoops that could have been heard half a mile away.

“It’s camp and a fire for you,” laughed Wabi, hurrying up to him.  “This is better luck than I thought you’d have, Rod.  We’ll have a glorious feast to-night, and a fire of this driftwood that will show you what makes life worth the living up here in the North.  Ho, Muky,” he called to the old Indian, “cut this fellow up, will you?  I’ll make camp.”