"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."
"Jock Scrabble--no, but say! By golly, there was a fellow up in the Big Woods that came from St. Cl--St. Cloud? Yes, that was it. He was telling us about the town. I remember he said your brother had great chances there."
The Englishman meditatively accepted a bad cigar from Mr. Wrenn. Suddenly: "You chaps can sleep in the stable-loft if you'd like. But you must blooming well stop smoking."
So in the dark odorous hay-mow Mr. Wrenn stretched out his legs with an affectionate "good night" to Morton. He slept nine hours. When he awoke, at the sound of a chain clanking in the stable below, Morton was gone. This note was pinned to his sleeve: DEAR OLD MAN,--I still feel sure that you will not enjoy the hiking. Bumming is not much fun for most people, I don't think, even if they say it is. I do not want to live on you. I always did hate to graft on people. So I am going to beat it off alone. But I hope I will see you in N Y & we will enjoy many a good laugh together over our trip. If you will phone the P. R. R. you can find out when I get back & so on. As I do not know what your address will be. Please look me up & I hope you will have a good trip. Yours truly, HARRY P. MORTON.