“Wus the letter writ by her?” he inquired.

“Not a doubt of it.”

“Then it’s all right,” said he.  “A likely pair o’ gals them air—­no mistake.”

“But I think they made me miss the bear,” I answered.

“Ray,” said D’ri, soberly, “when yer shutin’ a bear, ef ye want ‘im, don’t never think o’ nuthin’ but the bear.”  Then, after a moment’s pause, he added:  “Won’t never hev no luck killin’ a bear ef ye don’ quit dwellin’ so on them air gals.”

I thanked him, with a smile, and asked if he knew Eagle Island.

“Be’n all over it half a dozen times,” said he. “‘T ain’ no more ’n twenty rod from the Yankee shore, thet air island ain’t.  We c’u’d paddle there in a day from our cove.”

And that was the way we planned to go,—­by canoe from our landing,—­and wait for the hour at Paleyville, a Yankee village opposite the island.  We would hire a team there, and convey the party by wagon to Leraysville.

We were off at daybreak, and going over the hills at a lively gallop.  Crossing to Caraway Pike, in the Cedar Meadows, an hour later, we stampeded a lot of moose.  One of them, a great bull, ran ahead of us, roaring with fright, his antlers rattling upon bush and bough, his black bell hanging to the fern-tops.

“Don’ never wan’t’ hev no argyment with one o’ them air chaps ’less ye know purty nigh how ‘t’s comin’ out,” said D’ri.  “Alwus want a gun es well es a purty middlin’ ca-a-areful aim on your side.  Then ye ‘re apt t’ need a tree, tew, ’fore ye git through with it.”  After a moment’s pause he added:  “Got t’ be a joemightyful stout tree, er he ’ll shake ye out uv it luk a ripe apple.”

“They always have the negative side of the question,” I said.  “Don’t believe they ’d ever chase a man if he ’d let ’em alone.”

“Yis, siree, they would,” was D’ri’s answer.  “I ’ve hed ’em come right efter me ’fore ever I c’u’d lift a gun.  Ye see, they’re jest es cur’us ’bout a man es a man is ’bout them.  Ef they can’t smell ’im, they ‘re terrible cur’us.  Jes’ wan’ t’ see what ’s inside uv ‘im an’ what kind uv a smellin’ critter he is.  Dunno es they wan’ t’ dew ‘im any pertic’lar harm.  Jes’ wan’ t’ mux ’im over a leetle; but they dew it awful careless, an’ he ain’t never fit t’ be seen no more.”

He snickered faintly as he spoke.

“An’ they don’t nobody see much uv ’im efter thet, nuther,” he added, with a smile.

“I ‘member once a big bull tried t’ find out the kind o’ works I hed in me.  ‘T wa’n’ no moose—­jest a common ord’nary three-year-ol’ bull.”

“Hurt you?” I queried.

“No; ’t hurt ’im.” said he, soberly.  “Sp’ilt ’im, es ye might say.  Could n’t never bear the sight uv a man efter thet.  Seem so he did n’t think he wus fit t’ be seen.  Nobody c’u’d ever git ’n a mild o’ th’ poor cuss.  Hed t’ be shot.”

“What happened?”

“Hed a stout club ’n my hand,” said he.  “Got holt uv ‘is tail, an’ begun a-whalin’ uv ’im.  Run ‘im down a steep hill, an’ passin’ a tree, I tuk one side an’ he t’ other.  We parted there fer the las’ time.”