Feb. 19, 1910.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
289 
he saw the creature he was chasing disjoint it¬ 
self, and the part which was wheels careen to¬ 
ward him, while the human part resumed the 
normal mode of locomotion more familiar to 
bears and men. 
As it toppled to a fall, the bear hit the machine 
a blow that knocked it into a brush heap, then 
turned to Ben, who was crawling into the old 
boiler to breathe himself, and in the hope that 
it might be too small to admit bruin’s body. The 
boiler was not large and bears were getting fat 
on the late mast, fox grapes, muscadines and 
what not. But when he heard the bear squeez¬ 
ing inside of one end, Ben was thankful that 
the other end had rusted and fallen out. Luckily 
it was a tight fit for the bear, and Ben had time 
to continue on and run against his wheel where 
the bear had knocked it. 
“Up I gets me—what?” He gasped, suiting 
his action to the word. By that time the bear 
was out.also, and again they had it round and 
round the clearing, where stumps multiplied in 
place of trails that persisted in not being found. 
“Good Lord! The whole business is going over 
—what ?” 
When the bear’s weight was added to his own 
in the portion already undermined by water, the 
unexpected though natural result followed. The 
larger end was overbalanced by the smaller one. 
The seesaw ended in an oblique semi-circle 
through the air as the log rolled crashing down 
the bank into the rock-strewn stream. 
Eckstein was shot from the small end by the 
inrush of the stream. Jarred, bewildered, 
bruised, half stunned and smothered by the tor¬ 
rent of water pouring through the log, he heard 
bruin’s growls change to smothered chokings. 
The next he knew he was clinging to a rock 
near the bank, and just the top of the log show¬ 
ing above the current. It had become wedged 
longitudinally with the flow and had spewed him 
forth from the smaller end like wadding from a 
gun. 
Ben managed to crawl up the bank, then he 
nervously looked about for the bear, but noth¬ 
ing could be seen of that hitherto rampageous 
‘And you let him get away after all but drown¬ 
ing you?’ cried Floyd. “That comes of taking 
a popgun into these woods. I’m plum ashamed 
of you, Ben.” 
“I ain’t—that’s what! Give me another flap- 
jack, Finn. Why don’t you put more grease in 
your bread—what?” 
Eckstein was a hopeless case. Even Yates gave 
him over. But an hour later we missed the 
guide and a favorite hound—the one Ben had 
so nearly killed. Night had fallen and Eckstein 
snored faithfully until about daylight, when Finn 
staggered in with the more eatable portions of 
Ben’s bear wrapped in the hide and slung on his 
back. 
“Thar he is,” puffed Yates. “I had to split 
the log open afore I could get him out. Ef he’d 
a been pore he’d a come throo—like him.” He 
jerked a finger at Eckstein who was just waking. 
“Where’d you find it?” Ben demanded, staring 
at the hide in some astonishment. “So—I really 
got him—what?” 
“You got him?” This from Floyd Upshur. 
THE SPORTSMAN TOURIST IN NORWAY. 
From a photograph by Ch. G. 
“Pnn-ng! P-s-s-sh!’’ A hidden stub or some¬ 
thing punctured his forward tire and threw Ben 
—not into the creek—but against the upper end 
of that very seesaw log which was the starting 
point of the whole race—or hunt. 
“I m a goner,’’ he panted as he heard the pain- 
angered brute again hit the disjointed wheel an¬ 
other slap that sent it into a gallberry clump, 
then resume the chase. “I wonder what makes 
it so mad? Must be that it has cubs somewheres 
—what?” 
Eckstein pushed his way into the hollow log, 
blind to any consideration but that of avoiding 
the bear. The log was growing smaller as he 
advanced. Would he be able to go through? 
“Fat I am, but the bear is fatter—what?” he 
grunted, lying flat and worming his way on. 
Every clawrake spurred him to further effort. 
He could almost feel the claws nipping his legs 
as the wood pressed closer and closer. He was 
still several feet from the smaller outlet and 
wondering what next might happen when the log 
again began to oscillate. The smaller end was 
descending. Ben began to feel a rush of blood 
to the head. Why had he not remembered ? 
animal, nor was Ben in condition to prosecute 
a further search. “Drat the bear,” he concluded, 
sick of further hunting of any kind. “I wish I 
was at the camp—what?” 
After a strong pull at a small flask which had 
escaped the general disruption, Eckstein wrung 
the water from his clothes, picked up his .22 and 
managed to plug the deflated tire enough to use 
his wheel again. How he found the old timber 
road he hardly knew himself, but he was pedal¬ 
ing along right by the camp when he heard 
Yates sing out lustily to the others: 
“Grub pile! Whar d’ye reckon the fat ’un has 
gone to?” 
“I ain’t gone—what?” shouted Ben through 
the thick fringe of bushes between camp and 
trail. “I’m here all the time.” And the missing 
one came stumbling in, dragging his wheel, and 
flopped down before an astonished group. 
It was an hour or two before the savory taste 
of Finn’s cookery, added to an overpowering 
bait of flap-jacks, bacon and coffee, finally loos¬ 
ened Eckstein’s tongue sufficiently for the rest 
of us to find out what had really happened. The 
two Upshurs were disgusted. 
“What are you all kicking for?” Ben waxed 
indignant. “I get on trail of our first bear—” 
“Nein—he gets on your trail—” 
“I hunt him—trail him—” Eckstein continued, 
ignoring Floyd entirely. “I bottle him up— 
what? Ask Finn.” 
“Oh, he was wedged in tight enough. Ef he’d 
’a’ been ganted up and pore, I ain’t a-sayin’ what 
he’d a done.” 
“I bottle him up, I come into camp, and Finn 
he goes and he brings in the bear—what?” 
We had bearsteaks after that, and what do 
you think? Ben claimed the hide and got it, 
too. “See any .22 stings about his face—what?” 
he demanded. 
“Well, yes, but bless you,” Finn was grinning, 
“them mustard seed only made him mad.” 
“I knew they would. Had to make him mad 
to induce him to chase me into my trap. Once 
in there I sure had him—what?” 
Only one protest was filed after that. “Say, 
Eckstein,” supposed Floyd, “what if that log had 
been reversed, big end down stream?” 
“Some folks always will be fools,” was Ben’s 
retort. “I stop him my own self—what?” 
