“They might have been made by some animal in climbing,” suggested Dick.  “He might have slipped in coming down and torn off those strips in trying to hold on.”

“But grizzlies don’t climb,” objected Bert.

“Who said it was a grizzly?” retorted Tom.  “It might have been a black or brown bear.  You’ve got grizzlies on the brain.  The very biggest don’t measure more than nine or ten feet from the nose to the root of the tail.  Allowing a couple of feet more for his reach, and you have eleven or twelve altogether.  How do you account for the other four or five?  Unless,” he went on with elaborate sarcasm, “you figure out that this pet of yours is about fourteen feet long.”

The argument certainly seemed to be with Tom, but Bert, although he had no answer to it, still felt unconvinced.

“The scratches are too deep to have been made by any animal slipping,” he persisted.  “The beast, whatever it was, had a tremendous purchase to dig so deep.  And he couldn’t have got such a purchase except by standing on his hind legs.”

“Marvelous,” mocked Tom.  “A regular Sherlock Holmes!  Perhaps he stood on a ladder or a chair.  I’ve heard that grizzlies carry such things about with them when strolling in the woods.  Come along, old man,” he bantered, “or these squirrels will think you’re a nut and carry you off.  There’s nothing this side of a nightmare that’ll fit your theory, and you’d better give it up and come along with us sensible people.”

“But what did do it, then?” asked Bert obstinately.

“Search me,” answered Tom flippantly.  “I don’t have to know.  I’m not cursed with curiosity so much as some people I could mention.  What I do know is that we’re losing time and that I’m fairly aching to bait my hook and fling it into the water.  We’ve promised Mrs. Melton a big mess of fish for supper, and we’ve got to get busy, or she’ll think we’re a lot of four-flushers.”

They picked up their traps that they had laid aside while they were studying the bark.  Tom and Dick kept up a steady fire of jokes, their spirits lightened by the evidence that the “ghost” of the grizzly had been “laid.”  But Bert answered only in monosyllables.  He would have been as relieved as they had he been able to convince himself that he was wrong.  He “hadn’t lost any bear,” and was not particularly anxious to “meet up” with one, especially a monster of the size indicated.  Suddenly he dropped the basket.

“I’ve got it,” he exclaimed eagerly.

“No, you haven’t,” contradicted Dick.  “You’ve just dropped it.”

“What have you got?” mocked Tom.  “A fit?”

“The answer,” said Bert.

“Prove it,” challenged Dick.

“I’m from Missouri,” said Tom skeptically.

“Why, it’s this way,” hurried on Bert, too engrossed in his solution to retort in kind.  “Sandy was telling me a little while ago about the habits of grizzlies, and he mentioned especially the trick they have of standing on their hind legs and clawing at trees as high as they could reach.  But I remember he said they did this only in the spring.  They’ve just come out of winter quarters and they feel the need of stretching their muscles that have got cramped during their long sleep.  In the spring, the early spring.  Don’t you see?”