A CHROMATIC BEAR HUNT 



were informed that in Jill's veins coursed the 

 best blue blood of Virginia, and that, although 

 she was no puppy in point of years, her age 

 and experience were assets impossible to esti- 

 mate. This rendered me a bit doubtful, for 

 Alaska is not a land for fat old ladies, but 

 Fred destroyed my misgivings by saying: 



"Take it from me, she's all right. We 

 don't want any debutante dogs on this trip." 



Jack was more my ideal. He had the ears 

 of a bloodhound, the face of a mastiff, and 

 the tail of a kangaroo, while his eyes were 

 those of a tragedian, deep, soulful, and dark 

 with romance. When he gave tongue, we de- 

 cided he must have studied under Edouard 

 de Reszke. 



One day in Seattle sufficed to augment our 

 outfit with ammunition, fishing tackle, and a 

 mosquito tent. I have long since learned 

 not to carry grub into the north. 



Two years before, at the height of the 

 salmon season, I had made a trip through 

 the Copper River delta in a wheezy, smelly 

 fish boat, and while tidebound, with the north 

 Pacific pounding on the sand dunes to sea- 

 ward, I had gazed across thirty miles of flats 

 up into a gap of the great Alaskan range 



41 



