EHIND the big tree against which 
I had fashioned Peter’s stall was 
dense brush. I must investigate it, al- 
though the pulsing of my heart quick- 
ened at the thought. I got Peter quiet- 
ed a little; made his halter-rope more 
secure; then went to my tent and got 
my Marlin .44. I also put my revolver 
in my overall’s pocket. 
And now I cautiously entered the 
brush, my rifle ready. I had never met 
‘any large game, and the thought of 
perhaps meeting a black bear sent a 
thrill through me—a thrill, I must con- 
fess, that had in it an element of fear 
as well as of hopeful anticipation. 
Slowly, noiselessly moving twigs 
aside, I stole crouching along, my eyes 
searching about me—be- 
hind as well as before— 
‘and my ears were keenly 
tensed to every forest 
whisper. Fifty yards I 
went—a hundred—a hun- 
dred and fifty—two hun- 
dred. Then I saw through 
a gap in the underbrush 
an extruding rock in the 
midst of a small, open, 
leaf - carpeted space. 
Against the top of the 
rock leaned one end of a 
fallen tree. The leaves 
that strewed the ground, 
from birch and alder, were 
yellow, like sunlight. 
In a niche of the rock, 
and at its base, was a pile 
of yellow leaves. I hast- 
ened forward, anxious to 
reach the open. Then, 
from beyond the rock, in 
the thicket, came the crack 
of a dried sprig. Some- 
thing moved in there. I 
stopped, cautiously ad- 
vancing my rifle. My 
hands were warm and 
moist. 
_ Suddenly the supposed 
leaf-mound at the base of 
the rock became animated, and resolved 
itself quickly into a gigantic, tawny 
cat with long, slowly-waving, quivering 
tail. It was a panther, a magnificent 
brute. Then, before I could gather 
courage to raise my rifle to sight on 
the breast, it made a swift, graceful 
leap that carried it clear of the inclin- 
ing log and into the brush beyond. This, 
then, was what had caused Peter’s 
agitation. He must have smelled the 
panther lurking near. 
| A ND now the silence was broken by 
the crash of dried brush, and into 
the open space came a man carrying a 
gun. But such a man! Such an odd- 
appearing human! On his gray head 
Was a straw hat that, like Johnnie’s, 
66 ” . . 
“wanted a crown”; on his face a patri- 


archal beard and moustache. His 
wrinkled skin was a dirt-coated tan in 
color. His faded-blue shirt was open 
from the neck down, revealing beneath 
the grey beard a grizzled chest. He 
wore overalls that might have been blue 
at one time, and they, like his shirt, 
were torn and patched. His shoulders 
were stooped and he was inclined to 
sag at the knees. The gun he carried 
was an old, long-barreled army musket. 
peok a minute I kept still, fearful 
that if I made a move he might 
msitake me for some wild beast, and 
shoot. I was soon reassured. 
“Ye can come out, young man. Why 
for did ye no shoot the beastie. Man, 

Tom McGregor 
what a fine chance ye must’ve had!” 
I got up hastily from among the 
brush-wood, and, as I went toward him 
he eyed me keenly from beneath his 
heavy brows. 
“Why did ye no shoot the yellow 
devil?” he inquired again. 
He listened to my explanation, then 
held out a claw-like hand. 
“Ye’re a candid and canny lad. But 
I’ve forgotten the—er—social ameni- 
ties. My name’s McGregor, Thomas 
Bruce McGregor; and by all signs and 
tokens you’ll be my new neighbor.” 
There was a heartiness in the grip 
of McGregor’s hand that was unex- 
pected. After the hand-clasp he re- 
tained my hand for a moment, his 
fingers over my wrist, 
“That sight of the big cat set your 
heart agoing, lad. You weren’t scairt, 
Se 
but just a wee fearfu’. 
“W7OU’RE wrong, Mr. McGregor. I 
was scared, and scared stiff.” 
McGregor’s eyes again studied me. 
“Well, ye’ve got moral courage, lad- 
die, anyway. Let me see your gun. 
Man, but it’s a bonnie bit of mechanism, 
but it’s unco light—and short. Now 
take this gun—” 
“Were you going to shoot the pan- 
ther with that?” 
“An’ why for no? If the thing hurt 
the big cat from the muzzle as much 
as it hurts me from the stock when I 
fire it, it would serve its purpose well. 
The yellow deevil would 
never come back these 
pairts.” And the old man 
chuckled. He had a mel- 
low voice, and soft. 
Phe, oh Lowe ag 
wounded the beast and it 
turned on _ you? You 
wouldn’t have time to re- 
load.” 
“Aye,” mused the old 
man aloud, returning me 
my Marlin, “that ‘if’? has 
proven the courage of 
many aman. ‘If’ isa bad 
word, laddie—it signifies 
doubt. When ye _ shoot, 
dinna doubt: it disturbs 
the aim.” 
Many a time I’ve 
thought of that remark of 
my old friend. “Doubt 
disturbs the aim.” I be- 
lieve McGregor intended 
it to apply to other mat- 
ters besides shooting: and 
it certainly does apply. As 
I shall reveal in these 
memories, McGregor was 
somewhat of a_ philoso- 
pher—like most men of 
“the land o’ cakes.” 
Well, after some con- 
versation, McGregor accompanied me 
back to my tent. Then I proudly 
showed him my spring on the bank- 
side and he drank heartily from its 
sweet waters. 
“It’ll be a fine place for the deer 
to drink,” he remarked as he raised his 
dripping face from the little pool. 
“And now, lad, suppose you show me 
a ¢ 3 
the trail you’re makin’. 
O up the bank we climbed and along 
the section of trail or road I had 
completed. 
“Aye. Very good, very good. An’ 
now, if I might advise, you shall swing 
over to the right and cross that bit of 
swamp land. That’ll bring ye to my 
road. It isn’t a very good one, but it 
139 
