“How old be you?” said the Professor.

“Wall,” replied Abner, “the family Bible makes me out to be fifty-eight, but jedgin’ from the fun I’ve had I’m as old as Methooserlar.”

This remark gave Stiles the preliminary laugh, which he always counted upon when he told a story.

“Did yer ever meet a b’ar?” asked he, directing his remark to Quincy.

“Yes,” said Quincy, “I’ve stood up before one many a time.”

“Well, really,” exclaimed Abner, “how’d yer come off?”

“Usually with considerable less money than when I went up,” replied Quincy, seeing that Abner was mystified.

“What?” said Abner.  “I mean a real black b’ar, one of those big, shaggy fellers sech as you meet in the woods down in Maine.”

“Oh,” said Quincy, “I was talking about an open bar, such as you find in bar-rooms and hotels.”

This time the laugh was on Abner, and he was considerably nettled by it.

“Go on, Abner, go on!” came from several voices, and thus reassured, he continued: 

“Wall, as I wuz goin’ to say, I was out partridge shooting down in Maine several years ago, and all I had with me was a fowlin’ piece and a pouch of bird shot.  In fact, I didn’t have any shot left, for I’d killed ’bout forty partridges.  I had a piece of strong twine with me, so I tied their legs together and slung ’em over my shoulder.  I was jest goin’ to start for hum when I heerd the boughs crackin’ behind me, and turnin’ ’round I saw—­Geewhillikins!—­a big black b’ar not more’n ten feet from me.  I had nothin’ to shoot him with, and knew that the only way to save my life wuz to run for it.  I jest bent over and threw the partridges on the ground, thinkin’ as I did so that perhaps the b’ar would stop to eat them, and I could git away.  I started to run, but caught my toe in some underbrush and went down ker-slap.  I said all the prayers I knew in ’bout eight seconds, then got up, and started to run ag’in.  Like Lot’s wife, I couldn’t help lookin’ back, and there wuz the b’ar flat on his back.  I went up to him kinder cautious, for I didn’t know but he might be shammin’, them black b’ars are mighty cute; but, no, he wuz deader’n a door nail.  I took the partridges back to town, and then a party on us came back and toted the b’ar home.”

Every one sat quietly for a moment, then Quincy asked with a sober face, “What caused the bear’s death; was it heart disease?”

“No,” said Abner, “’twas some sort of brain trouble.  Yer see, when I threw those partridges onter the ground it brought a purty powerful strain onto my galluses.  When we cut the b’ar up we found one of my pants buttons right in the centre of his brain.”

Abner’s story was greeted with those signs of approval that were so dear to his heart, and Quincy, realizing that when you are in Rome you must do as the Romans do, was not backward in his applause.

All eyes were now turned to the Professor.