He sprang up, put on his shoes, and paced the churchyard.  It seemed a great waste of educational advantages not to study the tower of this foreign church, but he thought much more about his aching shoulder-blades.

Morton came from the porch stiff but grinning.  “Didn’t like it much, eh, Bill?  Afraid you wouldn’t.  Must say I didn’t either, though.  Well, come on.  Let’s beat it around and see if we can’t find a better place.”

In a vacant lot they discovered a pile of hay.  Mr. Wrenn hardly winced at the hearty slap Morton gave his back, and he pronounced, “Some Waldorf-Astoria, that stack!” as they sneaked into the lot.  They had laid loving hands upon the hay, remarking, “Well, I guess!” when they heard from a low stable at the very back of the lot: 

“I say, you chaps, what are you doing there?”

A reflective carter, who had been twisting two straws, ambled out of the shadow of the stable and prepared to do battle.

“Say, old man, can’t we sleep in your hay just to-night?” argued Morton.  “We’re Americans.  Came over on a cattle-boat.  We ain’t got only enough money to last us for food,” while Mr. Wrenn begged, “Aw, please let us.”

“Oh!  You’re Americans, are you?  You seem decent enough.  I’ve got a brother in the States.  He used to own this stable with me.  In St. Cloud, Minnesota, he is, you know.  Minnesota’s some kind of a shire.  Either of you chaps been in Minnesota?”

“Sure,” lied Morton; “I’ve hunted bear there.”

“Oh, I say, bear now!  My brother’s never written m—­”

“Oh, that was way up in the northern part, in the Big Woods.  I’ve had some narrow escapes.”

Then Morton, who had never been west of Pittsburg, sang somewhat in this wise the epic of the hunting he had never done: 

Alone.  Among the pines.  Dead o’ winter.  Only one shell in his rifle.  Cold of winter.  Snow—­deep snow.  Snow-shoes.  Hiking along—­reg’lar mushing—­packing grub to the lumber-camp.  Way up near the Canadian border.  Cold, terrible cold.  Stars looked like little bits of steel.

Mr. Wrenn thought he remembered the story.  He had read it in a magazine.  Morton was continuing: 

Snow stretched out among the pines.  He was wearing a Mackinaw and shoe-packs.  Saw a bear loping along.  He had—­Morton had—­a .44-.40 Marlin, but only one shell.  Thrust the muzzle of his rifle right into the bear’s mouth.  Scared for a minute.  Almost fell off his snow-shoes.  Hardest thing he ever did, to pull that trigger.  Fired.  Bear sort of jumped at him, then rolled over, clawing.  Great place, those Minnesota Big—­

“What’s a shoe-pack?” the Englishman stolidly interjected.

“Kind of a moccasin....  Great place, those woods.  Hope your brother gets the chance to get up there.”

“I say, I wonder did you ever meet him?  Scrabble is his name, Jock Scrabble.”