Chapter IV: Part 4

I was in the middle of a decent "break," and rapidly overhauling my opponent, when I noticed a black shadow whizzing about the table legs and flashing up and down among the spectators. Now, anyone who plays billiards will know that the light on the table makes it extremely difficult for the eyes to follow movement in the shadows around the room, and it was not until the thing brushed against my legs that I stopped playing and looked around.

The audience was standing up, wildly excited. I thought at first that it was my play which made them do this, but the flattering idea was quickly dispelled. I saw a lean brown arm sweep down and a wildly-spitting, furry object swung across the room and shot out of the window.

"What on earth was that?" I asked, startled.

"It's all right, Mr. Inman," replied the marker. "A wild cat has been rushing around here for the last ten minutes, but one of the gentlemen has just pitched it out of the window!"

I succeeded in winning the game all right, but did not finish until long after one o'clock in the morning. As we started at 9 p.m. and the heat during the whole four hours was terrific, it may be imagined that, what with interruptions from nautch girls and wild cats, I considered I had earned my fee, and a trifle over.

I came across something really unique in the way of rules in an hotel at Newara-Eliya, where I was booked to play. In the billiard-room, immediately opposite the table, where everyone could see it, hung a card bearing the following announcement:--

Gentlemen cutting the cloth will pay--

For first cut 100 rupees.
Second cut 50 rupees.
Third cut 20 rupees.
Any subsequent cut 10 rupees.

Judging from the appearance of the cloth, I should think that table must have been a veritable gold-mine to its proprietor, if he collected all the fines. Evidently his motto was "Cut and come again."

While staying at Wellington, New Zealand, I was invited to play at the Tararua Club, Pahiatua, some hundred and twenty miles away. I accepted the offer and, assuming that my stay there would be very short, left my wife at Wellington and travelled up to Pahiatua alone. I was met at the station by a number of gentlemen, and, after the usual liquid refreshment, went along to see the table on which I had to play. When I entered the room I saw a long, thin man squatting cross-legged in the centre of the table, stitching away at the cloth for all he was worth. Somewhat surprised, I introduced myself, whereupon the man explained that he was the local tailor, "jest puttin' things to rights a bit" for me.

_From a Photograph._
]

The table itself wasn't at all bad, but when I looked at it closely I noticed that the billiard spot (the black spot on the table which indicates where the red ball is usually placed) was at least three inches too far to one side.

I had become fairly hardened to trying conditions by this time, but to attempt to play with the red ball inches out of its recognised position was more than I dared do.

"What's the matter with that spot?" I asked. "It isn't right, is it?"

The man of the needle slued around on the cloth and squinted at the spot.

"Seems sorter crooked," he agreed, slowly; "but the fac' of the matter is that we change the position of that yere spot once a week. Otherwise it'd work a hole in the cloth!"

That beat me. I fled for the hotel and sought out the gentleman who had invited me to come there. He listened to my tale of woe and then, asking me to wait for a moment, disappeared.

I don't know whether they balloted or not, but the spot was moved into its right place, and the situation--so far as I was concerned--saved.

I had been told when I arrived there that, although there were no passenger trains from Pahiatua to Wellington at that hour of the night, I should still be able to get to Wellington when the game was over, as a goods train, known locally as the "Wild Cat," stopped at Pahiatua some time about midnight on its way down-country.

When the game was over, however, and I got back to the hotel, I found that the "Wild Cat" was a very doubtful kind of train and only stopped at Pahiatua when it thought it would! This particular night, it soon appeared, was one of its "off" nights--it never showed up at the station at all!

Everybody was very kind to me and made me as comfortable as possible. While I sat in the bar, waiting for the train which never came, I noticed in a corner a couple of men with their heads together, talking very earnestly. One of them was an old squatter, the other an obvious new-comer, and their argument seemed so heated and absorbing that I gradually edged my way along the seat towards them to try and hear what it was they found so engrossing.

I half expected it would be sheep, or land values, or old-age pensions, but when I came within hearing distance the squatter was saying:--

"I tell you, sonny, the 'uman race started from monkeys--and don't you forget it!"

Darwin's theory in the back-blocks of New Zealand! I went straight to bed after that. To run up against a philosophical tailor, a movable billiard spot, a train with ideas of its own, _and_ Darwin's theory, all in the same afternoon, was putting too severe a strain on a mere perambulating billiardist.

Even then, however, I had not finished with Pahiatua. In the small hours of the morning I awoke and saw that the room was filled with a dense, pungent mist. It would clear away for a moment, and the daylight would filter into the room; then down would come the fog, and the same peculiar smell would rise to my nostrils again. I lay still, watching this peculiar phenomenon for some time. I had seen so many strange things happen in the country that I accepted this as another of them.

Presently I heard heavy footsteps crossing my room.

"Who's that?" I asked.

"Only me, Mr. Inman," answered the voice of one of my friends of the previous night. "I've just come along to tell you not to be scared. The fire is nearly out."

Fire! I jumped from the bed and raced to the window. Immediately opposite the hotel I saw a huge pile of blackened wood, from which thick clouds of smoke were slowly curling. The mournful heap represented all that was left of a huge store, whose proprietor I had met and chatted with some eight hours before.

_From a Photograph._
]

I turned to my friend and saw that he was fully dressed.

"How long have you been up?" I asked.

"Three or four hours," he replied. "You see, the flames were coming over this way, and we all lent a hand to get it under."

"But, bless my soul," I said, "why on earth did you let me sleep on here?"

"Oh, you were all right," he returned, airily. "We didn't want to disturb you till the last minute. You've a long journey before you."

I knew that it was kindly meant, but at the time, at least, I did not quite appreciate it. I had been a sort of unconscious Casabianca for the best part of the night, and that "last minute" might have been a very exciting one. Yes, Pahiatua is one of the places I shall _not_ easily forget.

I suppose one does get used to these little eccentricities of Nature. I remember, when I visited far-away Thursday Island, the landlord of the Grand Hotel, who had arranged a match for me, said in a confidential aside to me just as I landed on the quay:--

"I don't think you will find the table very straight, Mr. Inman. We had a bit of an earthquake here last night, which shook it up a bit!"

"That's nice, cheerful news," I said. "How often do you have earthquakes?"

"Well, we're not so bad as some places," he answered. "They only happen about three times a week!"

My stay at Thursday Island lasted exactly twenty-four hours; I am not anxious to acquire an intimate knowledge of earthquakes. I brought away with me as a souvenir a copy of what is proudly claimed to be "the smallest newspaper in the world," the _Thursday Island Pilot_, a facsimile of which is here reproduced. It is a single sheet, measuring about fourteen inches by eight.

On one occasion I "put my foot in it" fairly. It happened in Southern India, at a place where I was booked to play at the local club. The journey took twelve hours by boat, and when I arrived I was told that a gentleman was waiting for me. I thought that he was bound to be the secretary of the club, who had arranged all details with me, and chatted to him as we made our way towards the village.

Presently we passed a ramshackle-looking building, the walls of which, as far as I could judge, were made out of empty biscuit-tins and soap-boxes. It straggled over half an acre of ground, and troops of hungry dogs were sniffing around it.

I thought that I might venture on a little humour just to liven up the conversation, so, pointing to the building, I said:--

"A cow shed, I suppose?"

He followed the direction of my outstretched finger, and a pained look came into his eyes.

"That's the hotel you're going to stay at," he said.

I gasped, but blundered on.

"What a horrible-looking hole!" I cried. "I shall never be able to get my wife to stay there."

"It's not so bad inside," was the reply, in rather a peculiar tone of voice.

The rest of our tramp was finished in a strained silence. I thought that, perhaps, as secretary of the club, my new friend was afraid that the accommodation would not please me. On the steps of the club I was met by a dapper little gentleman, and my companion, nodding to both of us, turned on his heel and disappeared.

"I am Mr. ----, Mr. Inman," said the man on the steps, and mentioned the name of the secretary with whom I had been in communication.

"Then who was that gentleman I have just left?" I asked, in surprise.

"That is the landlord of the hotel!" he explained.

Then, of course, I saw my mistake, and, when I met mine host again, hastened to make my apologies and patch things up as best I could. I am sure, however, that, deep down in his heart, my thoughtless words rankled. Both my wife and I took it in turns to praise everything whenever we saw him listening, but, alas! to the very end of our stay he wore a look of anxiety and care. Only when we stood on the deck of the little steamer and waved our farewells to him did the faintest suspicion of a smile flicker on his brown face. It may have been the fact that he was seeing the last of us that conjured the smile up, but I hope not.

One other little incident, and I have done. While playing at Kalgoorlie, Australia, I was approached by a resident and asked to call at his house to give a few lessons to his wife. The terms he offered were so high that I could not refuse, and so, when I had a few hours to spare, he and I went to his home.

I was introduced to his wife--a charming woman with all the true Colonial hospitality and kindliness--and we sat down in what was obviously the best room in the house and chatted for about half an hour. Finally, thinking that I ought to be up and doing something for my money, I suggested that, if the lady was quite ready, we ought to adjourn to the billiard-room, so that the lessons might commence.

"_This_ is our billiard-room," said my host.

I looked round in amazement. "But where is the table?"

He went to one corner of the room, lifted a small three-feet-by-six miniature table top, and placed it on the dining-table in front of me.

"This is our table," he said, proudly.

I felt as though it was taking money under false pretences to try to teach billiards on such a makeshift affair, and said as much, but the old gentleman would have none of it, so I set to work and did my best. But it was an ordeal which I have no wish to repeat, for cue, balls, and everything else were in proportion to the size of the table. In fact, I believe that the old fellow could do more on the thing than I could. Anyhow, he seemed a little hurt at my inability to run up a three-figure break on it, and on the way back to town again regaled me with yarns of what several of his squatter friends could do on that table in the way of piling up centuries.

We parted good friends, but I don't think he thought quite so much of my billiard-playing then as he had done at first. He was pained, perhaps, to find that it had limitations, and that a three-feet-by-six table was one of them!

"Tenderfeet," as our readers probably know, is the expressive
term applied out West to new-comers, or greenhorns. When
such men meet Bruin, or Bruin meets them, there is apt to be
trouble sometimes ending in tragedy, sometimes in the
broadest comedy. The instances here given belong to the latter
category, and will be found extremely amusing.

AN EVENING CALL.

BY ERNEST LAW.

It was June, 1906, and I was working at a small portable sawmill near Armstrong, British Columbia. George (the boss), Frank, "Texas," Jim, and myself made the entire crew. "Texas" was so called because of his frequent references to the State of his birth. For myself, being English, I was dubbed "Charlie," though it wasn't my proper name.

We had rigged up a fairly decent shack, and, with Jim at the head of the culinary department, managed to make ourselves pretty comfortable. The country round was well settled and we were only about six miles from Armstrong, a rapidly-growing town. There was plenty of bush-land about, however, some of it very rough, and deer, coyotes, and cougars were frequently seen, but seldom a bear.

On the evening I am writing about Frank had ridden into town directly after supper to "have a good time," as he expressed it, and we didn't expect him back till early morning. The rest of us were sitting around telling yarns. "Texas" was giving us something extra fine concerning his good work with a gun. He could usually hold his own at story-telling, could "Texas," but Jim, in particular, always openly doubted him. On this occasion he related how he had once bagged a doe and two fawns with a single shot. Jim guffawed incredulously, and was rewarded with a look of mild reproach.

"Any o' you fellers seen them bear tracks t'other side the creek?" asked George, suddenly.

No one had.

"When did you strike them, George?" asked "Texas."

"Just this morning, when I was waterin' the cayuse. They looked kind of fresh, too."

Now, George was a quiet sort of fellow, but I fancy he knew as much about hunting as the rest of us put together, and wasn't taking much notice of the boasting.

"What do you say to a hunt, Jim?" I ventured.

"No, sir; not me," replied Jim, hastily. "I ain't lost no bear."

"You're not scared of a brown bear, surely, Jim?" observed the Texan, with a grin.

"Well," said Jim, "if there were three bears I'd maybe look around and have a plug at them, but I don't waste no shell on just one ornery bear."

"No, I guess not," said "Texas," dryly.

"D'you ever _see_ a live bear?" pursued Jim, offensively.

"Well, I guess I've shot more bear than _you've_ ever seen, Jim," retorted the American.

"Maybe you'll hunt this one for us, then," suggested Jim, sarcastically. "We're all dead scared to sleep here."

"If I run across him at all, I guess there'll be a dead bear around mighty quick," replied "Texas."

Jim was silent for a moment, then he looked up quickly, struck by a sudden idea. "Say, Texas," he cried, "s'pose the bear comes around here, will you take a shot at him?"

"You betcher life!" snapped "Texas."

Thereupon Jim rose, with a look of determination on his face, and proceeded to set fire to a few sticks. Next, going indoors, he brought out some sugar, which he threw on the blaze. I had heard somewhere that the smell of burnt sugar attracted bears from a long distance, and began to understand what he was about.

Meanwhile, "Texas" looked on cynically, suggesting that if Jim were to whistle it would have just as much effect. But Jim only said, "You wait a bit."

Well, we waited a bit, discussing the approaching festivities in town on the 1st of July (Dominion Day) until the others, I think, had forgotten all about the bear. About nine o'clock we turned in. We had bunks fixed up at the end of the shack farthest from the door--three in a row a little way above the floor, and two more above them. The table stood right in the centre of the room, and the stove in a corner by the door.

About eleven o'clock I woke with a start, aroused by an unholy racket outside. My first thought was that the bear had arrived, but soon I distinguished the husky tones of Frank, expostulating with the cayuse while he was taking his saddle off. In a few minutes he stumbled in, leaving the door wide open, and after a muttered conversation with the lantern managed to get it alight. By this time all of us were awake, and we could see that our companion had been imbibing heavily. He had brought a bottle of whisky back with him, and now, rolling it on the floor, he started to show us how they rode logs "back home."

After one or two futile attempts to balance himself on the bottle, he collapsed miserably in a heap, just as Jim flung a heavy logging-boot at him. He missed Frank, but smashed the lantern, leaving us in the dark. Frank was grunting and cursing on the floor, trying to strike the wrong end of a match.

George had just scrambled out of bed to close the door when we heard a rattling among the old cans and general _débris_ outside the shack, and a moment later we saw in the doorway, a black blot against the dark-blue sky, the bear himself! At that critical moment Frank struck a light. When he looked up and saw the bear he let out a yell like a redskin war-whoop, and I think he got sober on the spot. Anyway, when the brute started to come inside Frank knew enough to go round the other side of the table. Thence he dodged out of the doorway and off down the road at terrific speed.

Meanwhile, the bear went sniffing along on the other side to where our bunks were, while George, Jim, and I cleared out hurriedly. It was quite dark inside the hut, and we all thought "Texas" was with us. Jim was certainly scared. Once outside, he picked up an axe and went away down the road so fast that the tail of his nightshirt flew out stiff behind him. He must have flung the axe away after a while, to expedite his flight, for we found it quite a long way off in the morning.

Now, "Texas," it subsequently appeared, had slept right on till Frank gave his yell. Then he sat up, rubbed his eyes leisurely, and caught sight of the bear. Then he in turn let out a yell or two. Mr. Bear, somewhat startled, went to the other end of the hut. While he stood there, sizing up "Texas," and while "Texas" was wishing he was in mid-ocean, or on a cloud, or some place where there weren't any bears, George crept in and grabbed his rifle.

Fortunately, he kept his head and didn't fire, or "Texas" might have got hit, for it was impossible to distinguish objects plainly inside the shack. Instead of shooting, he started to throw all the small articles he could lay hands on in the direction of the snuffling and grunting, and finally the bear went out again. During the latter part of these proceedings "Texas" had been trying to tear a hole in the roof, and, standing on his bunk--one of the top ones--had been successful in ripping off a shingle or two.

Directly Bruin got clear of the shack George let drive. He must have hit him in the leg, I think, for the brute seemed to limp afterwards. I was up a tree at the time, and when the next cartridge jammed I fully expected to see George have a lively time. According to precedent the bear should have got savage on being hit and made things interesting; but he must have known better, for he just walked calmly into the bush and we lost sight of him.

When we tried to get into the shack again we found that the door wouldn't open. We hammered and yelled, while George showed his mastery of English idiom, and after a while we heard "Texas" inside moving one or two pieces of furniture away. You can imagine how sheepish he looked when we went in, but nobody said a word as we put back the table and things.

Frank was sitting outside on a pile of stove-wood, ruminating deeply. I think he had an idea he had seen an imaginary bear, for he vowed eternal teetotalism for about ten minutes on end. Jim came in last, shivering with cold, for the evenings in that part of the country are chilly for a promenade in one's nightshirt.

We all climbed into our bunks again and went to sleep, and I don't think any of us felt inclined to boast about our evening's work. George was the only one who had kept cool. But the figure "Texas" had cut, after all his boasting, was lamentable. He left us a day or two after, and none of us heard any more of him.

We followed up the bear's tracks next day, but lost them in the thick bush after a few hundred yards. I think, however, that it was "our" bear a Siwash Indian shot a little while afterwards about half a mile off. This tale has now been improved beyond recognition in the neighbourhood, but mine is the correct version.

TWO "GREENHORNS" AND A BEAR.

BY A. WRIGHT.

In Chatham Straits, Alaska, only a stone's throw from the mainland, there is a little island called Kilasnoo. It boasts of a tiny Indian village named after the island, and a factory where they turn out fish-oil. At a little wharf belonging to the factory, in the summer of 1895, lay the United States survey steamer _Patterson_, on board which Charles Henderson, a native of Gefle, Sweden, and myself were able seamen. We were fast friends, and had agreed to be sporting companions whenever we got the opportunity. Up to the present time we had never done any hunting, although we owned two guns. The only things we had shot at so far were condensed milk cans, which we threw into the water and fired at from behind a bush, at a distance of about fifty feet. I regret to add that we never hit one. It was our first year up there, and so far we had had no chance of showing what we could do against big game, but the chance came along rather sooner than we expected.

One Saturday afternoon, seated in a canoe, Henderson and I paddled off to the opposite shore. Landing just above a large inlet called Hood's Bay, we hauled our canoe up into the edge of the wood, and then, taking our fishing-tackle and guns, we started off along a trail which brought us, after a three-mile tramp through the wood, to the shores of a lake where we intended to fish for trout. Although we had brought our guns, we knew that no game had been seen around there for years--at least, so the Indians told us. We carried our guns, therefore, but there was no likelihood of them being required, and I believe in our hearts we were both glad of it--I know I was, at any rate.

Presently, tramping steadily through the woods, we arrived at a clearing or flat at the head of the lake, where, for a space of about twenty yards, from the edge of the forest to the water, the ground was bare, save for a solitary dead tree in the middle. We were crossing this barren stretch when, all of a sudden, a sight met our gaze which brought us to a standstill. There, coming round the corner of the clearing, was a bear! I had seen one before at a zoo, and knew at once what it was, only this bear looked about three times as big as the beast at the zoo.

I will not speak for Henderson, but if I could have moved just then I should have taken a header into the lake. When we got our breath after the first shock of surprise, my companion shouted excitedly, "Shoot! Shoot!" He yelled so loud that the bear stopped in surprise, had a good, comfortable look at us, gave what sounded like a grunt of disgust, and then turned tail and quietly trotted off along the trail in the direction we had come from. Directly he had disappeared we unslung our guns and consoled each other by declaring that the reason we had not fired at the bear was not because we were scared, but because we were fascinated by our first sight of a real wild bear. Nevertheless, it was remarkable how quickly and with what touching unanimity we climbed up that dead tree in the middle of the flat, in case Bruin should take it into his head to return. Seated in its branches we at least felt more comfortable, until Henderson suddenly remembered that bears could also climb. To make matters worse for us, it was now getting late in the afternoon, and the sun had already dipped behind the mountains. The thought of sitting up in that tree all night was no joke; but, still, we considered it better than going back through the woods, with thick undergrowth on both sides of the trail, in which countless bears could lie in wait for us.

_From a Photograph._
]

Presently Henderson suggested lighting a fire.

"All right," I replied. "You get down and collect the sticks; I'll keep watch up here."

But this brilliant suggestion found no favour with my companion.

"No," he said; "let's toss for it." So we did, and I won. Henderson got down--not so quickly as he got up, however--and began to look round for sticks, circling warily round and round the tree at arm's length. He did this two or three times, and then suddenly he shouted out loudly, "There are no sticks down here." The yell so scared me that I lost my balance and toppled down off my perch, landing with a crash on the ground. When I picked myself up, fortunately unhurt, Henderson was half-way up the tree, and I soon followed suit. Neither of us had the pluck to descend again, so all night we sat perched up in the tree, afraid to sleep lest we should fall, and shaking with cold, fear, and hunger. The night was terribly dark, and the stillness all around us was something that could almost be felt. The man who says he never knew fear when spending his first night in the primeval forest can have no respect for the truth. It is not excitement or nervousness, but absolute fear of the unknown, and I know it from experience, for Henderson and myself killed many a bear and spent many a night in the forest after that first one. But we never experienced the same sensation again.

When daylight arrived we clambered stiffly down from our perch, crouching in a hollow at the foot of the tree, and held a consultation. We finally decided to wait until the sun was well up above the trees before making a move, as otherwise we might lose the trail.

We had sat there chatting and smoking for about half an hour, when suddenly I heard the sound of breaking twigs. It sounded rather faint at first, but gradually got louder. "The bear!" I whispered excitedly to Henderson, and we both grabbed our guns and knelt upon a little stump ready to fire, our hearts beating like steam hammers behind our ribs.

We had not long to wait. Within a couple of seconds we saw Bruin's head between two trees, about a hundred yards in front of us: he was coming along at a quiet trot, with his shaggy head swaying from one side to the other. He did not look half so large as he had done the night before; perhaps it was because we were not so scared. "You cover his head and fire first," whispered Henderson.

Well, I did my best to cover his head, but speedily discovered that, though I could have covered anything the size of Ireland, I could tackle nothing smaller; I was shaking like a scarecrow in a gale. "Let him get right in front of us before we fire," said I, unwilling to confess my weakness. My companion did not answer, for just at that moment he fell off the stump on to his face and his gun went off. The report scared poor Bruin so badly that he stopped, bellowing loudly. Thereupon I fired three shots at his head, or as near as I could get to it. By this time Henderson had scrambled up in a mighty hurry, and Bruin started off at a gallop. We fired about twelve rounds at him before he disappeared into the bush, but did not go to see if he was wounded or dead, because we shrewdly suspected he had not been touched. He was moving too lively when we last saw him to have been hit--unless he dropped dead with fright at the noise we made.

When the bear had vanished we decided to let well alone and cleared out for the ship, which we reached without accident. We told no one on board of our adventure--simply said we had seen a bear's fresh tracks, and had waited all night to have a shot at it in the morning. "You're hunting mad," growled the boatswain. "Never mind," said I, sagely; "there's no sport like it."

A NIGHTMARE ADVENTURE.

BY G. BENNETT.

The Arctic Red River, a stream which has its source on the east side of the Rocky Mountains and flows in a series of rapids and treacherous falls into the Mackenzie, has tempted many a band of adventurous spirits to brave its difficulties in the hope of finding that elusive "mother-lode" which every miner is convinced exists to supply the rich alluvial deposits that have made the fame of the Klondike fields.

A little band of three had struggled about two hundred miles up the stream in the face of apparently insurmountable difficulties, having to unload their boat and "portage" the whole of their year's provisions over rocky, precipitous banks, which were often densely wooded, or tow her up rapids, under the fierce Canadian sun, when the strain on the rope must not be relaxed for a single moment lest the bows of the boat should be wrenched round by the current and the towers jerked backwards into the boiling waters.

They camped at last on a part of the bank that was low and grassy and clear of the eternal spruce trees for a short distance. Here they built a rough shack, laid up the boat, and took a spell of prospecting. Into their camp on the second day limped a tattered, woe-begone, helpless-looking individual, a Swede, who explained in broken English, almost on the verge of tears, that he and his friends, seeing the business-like way in which the others had prepared to meet the difficulties of the river, had come to the conclusion that they were old hands, and followed at a safe distance, hoping to be able to keep modestly in the background till those in front had made a find, and then, as the Yankee of the party put it, they were ready to "whirl in and get the pickings of a right soft job." However, they had been forced to come into undue prominence because their boat had become hopelessly jammed between two rocks in a rapid and they could not move her without help. He ended his tale of woe and stood looking from one to the other of the three disgusted men who faced him.

"Well, of all the derndest cheek!" said the Yankee. "To explain so nicely how they planned to jump us, and then expect help so's they can do it!"

"We must sho'ly lend a ha-and," drawled the Southerner.

"Oh, yes," said the Englishman, the youngest of the party. "Of course we must help the poor beggars."

It was arranged at last that Bantling and Fox, the two Americans, should go to the rescue, while Rogers, the Englishman, kept camp.

They had dinner, and then, with the Swede as guide, started off down the river bank to the rapids.

Left alone, Rogers washed up the dinner-things, put up some grub, got his blanket and a rifle, and set off into the scrub. The day before, when getting wood, he had come upon the track of a moose, and was determined to try for a shot at him, picturing to himself the delight of the other two when they returned, to find a store of fresh meat. He followed the trail through a thicket of ground alder and willow, stumbling into muskegs and bursting through tangled undergrowth. It was frightfully hot, for this was the Canadian summer, and when he at last reached a small clearing, through which ran a little stream from a "sienega" or small lake higher up, he thankfully camped there for the night.

The next morning, having had some breakfast, he found the trail of the moose clear and straight before him, and decided to return to the shack for more food before setting out on a hunt that might last days. So, leaving his blanket and rifle behind, he set out. It was much easier going back, as he had forced a fairly clear path and knew the way. He was surprised how quickly he found himself once more at the edge of the clearing round the camp, and was just about to cross the open to the shack, when a curious, exasperated, whining growl made him draw quickly back into the shadow of the trees, wishing, too late, that he had brought his rifle with him. At the foot of one of the slim pines upon which they had built the platform for their "cache" stood an immense "cinnamon" bear, nearly as large as a fair-sized bull, stretching his enormous fore-legs as far as possible above his head in a vain endeavour to reach the dainties he could smell above him. But though he could reach twelve good feet, the "cache" was up fifteen, and the trees that supported it were young and slim, so that, when he tried to get a grip to climb, his fore-paws overlapped; and no bear can climb a tree unless it is bigger than the circle of his arm, so that he can grip it with his claws.

If he had not been in such an awkward predicament, Rogers would have been immensely tickled at the antics of the big brown beast. He stretched himself upon tip-toe in his efforts to reach the platform, giving little jumps, for all the world like a small boy in a jam cupboard. Then he backed slowly away, staring at the unattainable with grunts and whines, shaking his great heavy head from side to side.

Next he squatted on his haunches, as if thinking deeply; then made a sudden rush at one of the trees and, clasping it, shook it viciously, but finding that of no avail lost his temper completely, and gave it an angry slap with his heavy paw, tearing off a great strip of bark.

Then he turned his back as if disgusted and, ambling to a sasketoon bush, took the branches between his paws and pulled off the berries, which are like bilberries, with his mouth, as daintily as a girl eating raspberries.

But the stores upon the platform drew him once more. He tried each tree in turn for a grip, scoring great grooves with his claws, and rocking stiffly on all four feet in sullen anger at his failure. Finally he started on a reconnoitring tour round the "cache," which brought him near the tree behind which Rogers crouched, weaponless save for a pocket-knife.

To the man's horror the bear stood suddenly still, and, throwing up his head, sniffed suspiciously, looking round him meanwhile. Then, with a curious twitch, he tilted the end of his great nose up and back, thus lifting the upper lip clear of the great white fangs--an unpleasant and terrifying trick he shares in common with the "huskie" dog.

The perspiration streamed from every pore of the man behind the tree, and with some vague idea of selling his life as dearly as possible he was beginning to fumble stealthily for his pocket-knife, when, to his inexpressible relief, the bear swung round in his tracks and trotted back to the "cache."

Here he found an empty beef tin, which he eagerly seized upon, tucking it securely into the crook of one arm, while he investigated inside with the other paw. Holding it between both paws, he licked the inside, his long, red tongue worming into every crevice. Before finally discarding it, he held it up before him on one paw, gravely considering it.

The effect being so ludicrously like a woman taking in the points of a new bonnet, Rogers would have found it difficult not to laugh, had not the bear at that moment ungratefully smashed the tin flat with his paw and, getting purposefully to his feet, started off once more towards Rogers's sheltering tree.

The strain was beginning to tell, and the man could have shrieked aloud for very terror. The sweat poured down his face, blinding him, and he dared not lift a hand to wipe it away for fear of making some tell-tale sound. On came the bear at a curious jog-trot, his heavy head wagging to the motion, saliva dripping from his jaws.

He came within twenty feet of the tree; then, as if deliberately playing with his victim, once more swung round and went back to the "cache." He made no more futile attempts to reach the platform, but, squatting on his haunches at the foot of one of the trees, appeared to sink into a profound meditation upon the difficulties of the situation.

There they were, the bear and the man, each crouching against a tree, each mind busily scheming how to obtain the unobtainable--the man his rifle, and the bear the stores.

Suddenly Rogers realized that he was hungry, and smiled grimly as he saw that this was another point of similarity between them; the bear was also very hungry.

The day was wearing on, and the clouds of mosquitoes that always come with the sunset found in Rogers a victim powerless to resist. The first cloud sounded the glad news in the shrill trumpeting buzz that has no counterpart in sound, and clouds more came hurrying gladly to the attack.

He was just beginning to think that if he did not die of bear he would of mosquito, and that on the whole the bear might be the lesser evil, when to his delight he heard, faint in the distance, the voices of the returning rescue party.

The bear heard them too, and with many grunts and backward looks at the "cache" rolled off into the scrub.

It was now perfectly safe for Rogers to cross the open to the shack, but so shaken were his nerves that he could not have left the shelter of the tree for all the gold in Canada.

He waited till he could see the figures of the returning men moving in the scrub, and then sent forth a long hail.

"Boys! Oh, boys! Come quick and bring a gun!"

A figure halted, listened, then started at a run towards him, slipping cartridges into a Winchester as he came. It was Fox, the Southerner, and as he caught sight of Rogers his natural ironical speech slipped from him.

"Why, sonny," he said, "you are sho'ly playing touchwood."

And Rogers realized with something of a shock in what a limp, nerveless manner he was clinging to that friendly pine. He straightened himself up with a shaky laugh.

"No," he said, "it's been puss-in-the-corner, with the biggest cinnamon I have ever seen. He went off there to the right when he heard you coming. For Heaven's sake, try for a shot at him."

But Fox was already off through the scrub, murmuring to himself as he hurried, "Puss in-the-corner! My sakes! An' whatever ha-ad the young fool done with his gun?"

Rogers crossed over to the shack, where he found Bantling anxious to hear the trouble, but casting a concerned and hungry eye round in search of the supper that should have been awaiting them, and was not. However, a fire of dry pine-knots was soon lit, a frying-pan put on with cold pork and beans, tea made, and they exchanged accounts of adventures as they ate.

It seemed that Fox and Bantling had been led by the Swede about two miles down the river bank, over very bad ground full of muskegs, which are patches of slimy bog and water. When they reached the scene of the catastrophe, they found three men calmly sitting round a fire they had built on the bank, smoking their pipes and staring at their boat, which they had left forlornly wedged between two rocks, not far out from the bank, without even attempting to unload her. It was a queer-looking craft, like an enormous punt, with a great square sail, heaped untidily with a mixed pile of stores without any attempt at balance. The wonder was that they had managed to get so far.

It was a typical case of incompetence expecting to succeed in a country that will only consent to accept the best that every man has to give. Men start off to venture up the unknown reaches of these Arctic rivers without the slightest knowledge of what is before them. They will vaguely announce that the only essential is "grit," and deem such things as a knowledge of carpentry and shipbuilding and a smattering of geology entirely superfluous.

Such a party were these four men, all their boasted grit taken clean out of them, by hardship, sitting down before their stranded boat, trading on the unwritten law of the wild that each man must help his brother.

Bantling and Fox set them to work unloading, which they did with much grumbling; then yoked them into the tow-lines and set them to haul, while they stood up to their waists in water levering up the boat with spruce poles. When she at last floated it was with several seams badly sprung, which meant she had to be beached and caulked.

Having seen to this, and feeling they had done enough, the two Americans started back, having been away nearly two days.

Bantling had just finished the account of their labours, and he and Rogers had had supper and been back to the other clearing to fetch the latter's blanket and rifle, when Fox strode disgustedly up to the fire.

"Get him?" he repeated scornfully, in reply to their eager inquiries. "Never got a sight of him. If you hadn't been so unmistakably scared limp, Rogers, I should think you'd been pulling my leg."

Rogers, in proof of good faith, recounted his harrowing experience once more.

"But you never left your gun behind along with your blanket?" demanded Fox.

"Well," said Rogers, hesitatingly, "you see, it was so hot, and I was only just coming back to see everything was all right and get some grub. It seemed so useless to bring it up here just to lug it back."

"An' you air supposed to know the country!" was the Southerner's comment upon these excuses, delivered in tones of deepest scorn.

For the rest of the evening, smoking round their glowing fire, the three men raked over their memories in search of queer experiences with which to cap the events of the day.

They turned in at last about ten o'clock. Fox and Bantling had bunks on either side of the shack beyond the stove. Rogers's was across the end, opposite them. He was just slipping into that moment of exquisite rest before sleep comes when it is positive pain to be roused, when a drawling voice said:--

"Oh, sonny, next time you go out walkin' in this little ol' country don't use rifles to prop trees with; it's quite likely to come expensive. An' don't get dreamin' of bears--if you can help it," he added, with a chuckle.

A disgusted grunt was the only answer, as Rogers dived still deeper under his blankets. "Bang!" Bantling awoke with a start and felt for his revolver, with a vague idea of Indians. "Bang!" Something fell with a crash and a rattle. "It's the stove-pipe," thought Bantling. "Bang!" And he heard the thud of a bullet entering wood.

The Yankee collected his scattered wits and lit a candle. By its light he discovered the Southerner sitting up in bed, his usually calm, lean, brown face working with excitement, blazing wildly in every direction.

Rogers had bolted from his bunk and was crouching in the farthest corner. A large flake of wood chipped from a log above him had fallen on his pillow, and lay there to show what had awakened him to the dangers of the situation. The sheet-iron stove-pipe which carried off the smoke through the roof hung limply in two, a shot having undermined the strength of the joint at the elbow, and, as Bantling was taking in all this, a tiny looking-glass that one of them had hung on the wall fell in a tinkling shower of splinters from another shot, while Fox muttered wildly:--

"Mind that bear! Don't let him get away on you. I've hit him once in the shoulder."

To be shut up in a shack fourteen feet by ten with a man afflicted by nightmare in the form of imaginary bears to be shot is not an enviable situation, and for Rogers it was an extremely dangerous one, as Fox was shooting straight at him. Bantling slipped from his bunk and, striding across the hut, seized the dreamer's wrist in a paralyzing grip. With the touch Fox's eyes, which had been wide open all the time, lost their unseeing stare. He turned a bewildered gaze from the hand on his wrist to the angry face above him.

"There was a bear," he explained, mildly. "Did I get him?"

"Get him!" said Bantling, wrathfully. "You fool! You nearly got Rogers! And look at the damage you've done!"

As the situation dawned on Fox his dismay knew no bounds.

_From a Photograph._
]

"I'm real sorry, you fellows," he said. "I guess I've had a touch of the worst kind of nightmare. Bantling, you'd better take charge of my six-shooter."

"You bet your life!" replied Bantling, briefly, but with immense feeling, as he took possession.

"I'm real sorry," said Fox again, turning to Rogers, "to have given you such a time. It appears it isn't me who ought to tell folks not to dream about bears, and I guess it'll be as well for the health of you fellows, if not my own, that I shouldn't eat quite such a hearty meal in future just before turnin' in."

The Life of a Steeplejack.

BY WILL LARKINS.

In this impressive article, =Mr. W. Larkins=, the well-known
steeplejack, of Bow, London, sets forth some of his most
exciting experiences in the way of felling chimneys and
repairing steeples--a form of "high art" which has perils
peculiarly its own. The striking photographs which accompany
the text lend additional realism to a straightforward
narrative.

I come of a race of steeplejacks. My father earned his living at the business, and met his death at it, falling from a church spire at Dumbarton, in Scotland.

Strictly speaking, the work is not really and truly so extraordinarily hazardous as people seem to think--that is to say, if a man takes proper precautions. Steeple-climbing is very much like mountaineering in this respect: it is the foolhardy folk who get hurt, and those who are inexperienced or careless.

Look at myself, for instance. I have been climbing since I was seven, and am now past thirty, and I have never met with an accident. But, then, I am a life-long abstainer and non-smoker, and I take no risks that forethought is able to provide against.

Narrow escapes I have had in plenty, but they hardly count in my line of business. All dangerous trades involve risks to those following them.

A rotten coping; a puff of wind, coming up unexpectedly from nowhere in particular; a loose brick, or a piece of decayed ironwork--any one of these may easily spell death.

Then, too, there are what, for want of a better term, I may call "outside risks": outside the regular run of our hazards, that is to say. For example, I once came very near to losing my life through being attacked by a swarm of bees while repairing a tower at Culmstock, in Devonshire. I had to descend very quickly, but I returned at two o'clock in the morning and asphyxiated the lot while they were asleep. Incidentally, I secured for myself thirty pounds of very excellent honey. The insects had been there for years, having found their way into the interior through a cavity left by a scaffold-pole used in erecting the edifice.

Another nasty experience that befell me occurred so recently as October, 1908. I was engaged to fell two lofty stacks at Millwall. They were each about a hundred feet high, and were known locally as the "leaning chimneys," being about four feet six inches out of the perpendicular.

This peculiarity made the task of cutting into their bases a somewhat ticklish one, since it was difficult to say, even approximately, when they were going to fall. Also, of course, I had to perform the work on the side to which they were inclined.

_From a Photo. by F. W. Pickford._
]

However, the first one toppled over all right, the "groaning" of the undermined mass, as it swayed ever so slightly to its fall, giving me timely warning of what was about to happen. But the second one collapsed far more suddenly, with the result that the "heel" of the falling portion actually "kicked" me clean off the base that remained standing! I fell fifteen feet, turning a complete somersault and alighting on all fours. I was somewhat shaken, but quite uninjured.

The biggest job I have undertaken up till now has been the decorating and repairing of the Nelson column in Trafalgar Square. This was my Matterhorn, so to speak.

I carried out the decorations to the order of the Navy League. It was the year 1905, the centenary of the great Admiral's crowning victory and death, and it was determined to do the thing in style. Nearly forty tons of laurel were used, and the greater portion of this had to be carried aloft and fixed to the column at varying heights right up to the top.

My orders as to not damaging the memorial in any way were most stringent; no nails or spikes of any kind were to be driven into it. This meant devising an altogether new method of ascent.

I thought out many plans, but eventually decided to lash ladders to the structure by means of ropes passed round and round it. It was a ticklish, trying job, but it was accomplished without hitch or mishap of any kind.

_From a Photograph._
]

Two sets of ladders were used, placed opposite to one another. This was necessary, as the column measures forty feet in circumference--too far to pass a rope round with ease. The most difficult part of the ascent to negotiate was the cornice at the top of the column. This is the heaviest projection for "throw-back" work in England, and I had to climb up and over it with my back to the ground, for all the world like a fly on a ceiling.

_From a Copyright Photo. by The Sport and General
Illustrations Co._
]