“Come to breakfast,” cried Stranion. “Lynch is here, and it’s time we were over the portage.”
Tom Lynch was a lumberman whom we had engaged by letter to come with his team and drag, and haul our canoes over to Mud Lake. His team was a yoke of half-wild brindle steers. The portage was five miles long, the way an unvarying succession of ruts, mud-holes, and stumps, and Mr. Lynch’s vocabulary, like his temper, was exceedingly vivacious. Yet the journey was accomplished by the middle of the afternoon, and with no bones broken. The flies and mosquitoes were swarming, but we inflicted upon them a crushing defeat by the potent aid of “slitheroo.” This magic fluid consists of Stockholm tar and tallow spiced with pennyroyal, and boiled to about the consistency of treacle. It will almost keep a grizzly at bay.
By half-past three in the afternoon we were launched upon the unenchanting bosom of Mud Lake, a pond perhaps three miles in circumference, weedy, and swarming with leeches. It hardly exceeds two feet in apparent depth, but its bottom is a fathomless slime, stirred up vilely at every dip of the paddle. Its low, marshy shores, fringed here and there with dead bushes and tall, charred trunks, afforded us but one little bit of beauty, – the green and living corner where Beardsley Brook flows out. At this season the brook was very shallow, so that we had often to wade beside the canoes and ease them over the shallows. And now Sam did a heroic thing. He volunteered to let the rest of us do the work, while he waded on ahead to catch some trout for supper.
It was by no means unpleasant wading down this bright and rippling stream, whose banks were lovely with overhanging trees through which the sunlight came deliciously tempered. Time slipped by as sweetly as the stream. But a little surprise was in store for us. We were descending a beautiful alder-fringed reach, when around a bend below us appeared Sam with undignified impetuosity. He struggled toward us knee-deep in the current, dashing up the spray before him, his eyes as wide as saucers. “A bear! A bear!” he gasped; and hurling down his rod and fish in the canoe he seized a heavy revolver. We had grasped our weapons precipitately, and halted. But Sam urged us on, leading the way. As thus full-armed we pressed forward down stream, he told us in a suppressed voice how, as he angled and meditated, and there was no sound save the hushed tumult of a little rapid or the recurrent swish of his line, suddenly from the bank behind him rose the angry, blatant growl which he knew for the utterance of a she-bear with cubs. At this he had felt indignant and startled; and, with a terrific yell, had hurled a stone into the bushes as a hint that he was a bad man and not to be trifled with. Thereupon had arisen a roar which put his yell to shame. The undergrowth had rocked and crashed with the swift approach of the monster; and, filled with penitential misgivings, he had made haste to flee. When we reached the scene of the possible tragedy, however, the bear, or bears, had disappeared. We grieved not greatly for their absence.
CHAPTER II.
THE CAMP ON BEARDSLEY BROOK
By this time the stream, having taken in two or three small tributaries, had grown deep enough to float us in comfort. A little before dusk we reached a spot where some previous party had encamped, and had left behind a goodly store of elastic hemlock boughs for bedding. We took the hint and pitched tent.
Sam’s trout were a dainty item on our bill of fare that night. Our camp was in a dry but gloomy grove, and we piled the camp-fire high. When the pipes were well going, I remarked, —
“It’s time Magnus gave us a story now.”
“Hear! Hear!” cried every one but Magnus.
“One of your own adventures, Magnus,” urged Queerman. “Be content to be your own hero for once.”
“I’ll tell you a story my uncle told me,” said Magnus with a quiet smile. “And the O. M. can enter it in his note-book as —
‘A TIGER’S PLAYTHING.’
“My uncle, Colonel Jack Anderson, a retired officer of the English army, was a reticent man. He had never explained to me the cause of a certain long red scar, which, starting from the grizzled locks behind his ear, ran diagonally down his ruddy neck, and was lost beneath his ever-immaculate shirt-collar. But one night an accidental circumstance led him to tell the story.
“We were sitting coseyly over his study fire, when his cat came stalking in with sanguinary elation, holding a mouse in her mouth. She stood growling beside my chair till I applauded her and patted her for her prowess. Then she withdrew to the middle of the room, and began to play with her half-dazed victim, till Colonel Jack got up and gently put her outside in order to conclude the exhibition.
“On his return my uncle surprised me by remarking that he could not look without a shudder upon a cat tormenting a mouse. As I knew that he had looked quite calmly, on occasion, into the cannon’s mouth, I asked for an explanation.
“‘Do you see this?’ asked the colonel, touching the scar with his lean, brown finger. I nodded attentively, whereupon he began his story: —
“‘In India once I went out on a hot, dusty plain near the Ganges, with my rifle and one native servant, to see what I could shoot. It was a dismal place. Here and there were clumps of tall grass and bamboos, with now and then a tamarisk-tree. Parrots screamed in the trees, and the startled caw of some Indian crows made me pause and look around to see what had disturbed them.
“‘The crows almost at once settled down again into silence; and as I saw no sign of danger, I went on carelessly. I was alone, for I had sent back my servant to find my match-box, which I had left at the place of my last halt; but I had no apprehensions, for I was near the post, and the district was one from which, as was supposed, the tigers had been cleared out some years before.
“‘Just as I was musing upon this fact, with a tinge of regret because I had come too late to have a hand in the clearance, I was crushed to the ground by a huge mass which seemed to have been hurled upon me from behind. My head felt as if it had been dashed with icy or scalding water, and then everything turned black.
“‘If I was stunned by the shock, it was only for an instant. When I opened my eyes I was lying with my face in the sand. Not knowing where I was or what had happened, I started to rise, when instantly a huge paw turned me over on my back, and I saw the great yellow-green eyes of a tiger looking down upon me through their narrow black slits.
“‘I did not feel horror-stricken; in fact, so far as I can remember, I felt only a dim sense of resignation to the inevitable. I also remember that I noticed with curious interest that the animal looked rather gratified than ferocious.
“‘I don’t know how long I lay there, stupidly gazing up into the brute’s eyes; but presently I made a movement to sit up, and then I saw that I still held my rifle in my hand. While I was looking at the weapon, with a vague, harassing sense that there was something I ought to do with it, the tiger picked me up by the left shoulder and made off with me into the jungle; and still I clung to the rifle, though I had forgotten what use I should put it to.
“‘The grip of the tiger’s teeth upon my shoulder I felt but numbly; and yet, as I found afterwards, it was so far from gentle as to have shattered the bone.
“‘Having carried me perhaps half a mile, the brute dropped me, and raising her head uttered a peculiar, soft cry. Two cubs appeared at once in answer to the summons, and bounded up to meet her. At the first glimpse of me, however, they sheered off in alarm; and their dam had to coax them for some minutes, rolling me over softly with her paw, or picking me up and laying me down in front of them, before she could convince them that I was harmless.
“‘At last the youngsters suffered themselves to be persuaded. They threw themselves upon me with eager though not very dangerous ferocity, and began to maul and worry me. Their claws and teeth seemed to awaken me for the first time to a sense of pain. I threw off the snarling little animals roughly, and started to crawl away. In vain the cubs tried to hold me. The mother lay watching the game with satisfaction.
“‘Instinctively I crept toward a tree, and little by little the desire for escape began to stir in my dazed brain. When I was within a foot or two of the tree the tiger made a great bound, seized me in her jaws, and carried me back to the spot whence I had started.
“‘“Why,”’ thought I to myself, ‘“this is just exactly the way a cat plays with a mouse!”
“‘At the same moment a cloud seemed to roll off my brain. No words of mine, my boy, can describe the measureless and sickening horror of that moment, when realization was thus suddenly flashed upon me.
“‘At the shock my rifle slipped from my relaxing fingers; but I recovered it desperately, with a sensation as if I had been falling over a precipice.
“‘I knew now what I wanted to do with it. The suddenness of my gesture, however, appeared to warn the tiger that I had yet a little too much life in me. She growled and shook me roughly. I took the hint, you may be sure, and resumed my former attitude of stupidity; but my faculties were now alert enough, and at the cruelest tension.
“‘Again the cubs began mauling me. I repelled them gently, at the same time looking to my rifle. I saw that there was a cartridge ready to be projected into the chamber. I remembered that the magazine was not more than half empty.
“‘I started once more to crawl away, with the cubs snarling over me and trying to hold me; and it was at this point I realized that my left shoulder was broken.
“‘Having crawled four or five feet, I let the cubs turn me about, whereupon I crawled back toward the old tiger, who lay blinking and actually purring. It was plain that she had made a good meal not long before, and was, therefore, in no hurry to despatch me.
“‘Within about three feet of the beast’s striped foreshoulder I stopped and fell over on my side, as if all but exhausted. My rifle-barrel rested on a little tussock. The beast moved her head to watch me, but evidently considered me past all possibility of escape, for her eyes rested as much upon her cubs as upon me.
“‘The creatures were tearing at my legs, but in this supreme moment I never thought of them. I had now thoroughly regained my self-control.
“‘Laboriously, very deliberately, I got my sight, and covered a spot right behind the old tigress’s foreshoulder, low down. From the position I was in, I knew this would carry the bullet diagonally upward through the heart. I should have preferred to put a bullet in the brain, but in my disabled condition and awkward posture I could not safely try it.
“‘Just as I was ready, one of the cubs got in the way, and my heart sank. The old tiger gave the cub a playful cuff, which sent it rolling to one side. The next instant I pulled the trigger – and my heart stood still.
“‘My aim had not wavered a hair’s breadth. The snap of the rifle was mingled with a fierce yell from the tiger; and the long, barred body straightened itself up into the air, and fell over almost on top of me. The cubs sheered off in great consternation.
“‘I sat up and drew a long breath of thankful relief. The tiger lay beside me, stone dead.
“‘I was too weak to walk at once, so I leaned against the body of my vanquished foe and rested. My shoulder was by this time setting up an anguish that made me think little of my other injuries. Nevertheless, the scene about me took on a glow of exquisite color. So great was the reaction that the very sunlight seemed transfigured.
“‘I know I fairly smiled as I rapped the cubs on the mouth with my rifle-barrel. I felt no inclination to shoot the youngsters, but I would have no more of their over-ardent attentions. The animals soon realized this, and lay down in the sand beyond my reach, evidently waiting for their mother to reduce me to proper submission.
“‘I must have lain there half an hour, and my elation was rapidly subsiding before the agony in my shoulder, when at last my man, Gunjeet, appeared, tracking the tiger’s traces with stealthy caution.
“‘He had not waited to go for help, but had followed up the beast without delay, vowing to save me or avenge me ere he slept. His delight was so sincere, and his courage in tracking the tiger alone was so unquestionable, that I doubled his wages on the spot.
“‘The cubs, on his approach, had run off into covert, so we set out at once for the post. When I got there I was in a raging fever which, with my wounds, kept me laid up for three months.
“‘On my recovery I found that Gunjeet had gone the next day and captured the two cubs, which he had sent down the river to Benares, while the skin of the old tiger was spread luxuriously on my lounge.
“‘So you will not wonder,’ concluded the colonel, ‘that the sight of a cat playing with a mouse has become somewhat distasteful to me since that experience, I have acquired so keen a sympathy for the mouse!’”
While Magnus was speaking, a heavy rain had begun. It had little by little beaten down our fire; and now, as the wind was abroad in the hemlocks and the forest world was gloomy, we laced the tent-doors and lit our candles. It was announced by some one that Queerman’s turn was come to speak. He grumbled an acquiescence, and then dreamed a while; and in the expectant stillness the rush of rain, the clamor of currents, and the lonely murmur of the tree-tops, crept into our very souls. We thought of the sea; and when Queerman spoke, there was a vibration in his voice as of changing tides and the awe of mighty shores.
“Magnus,” said he, “your tale was most dusty and hot, though not too dusty, if I may be allowed to say so. It was of the earth earthy; mine shall be of the water watery. It may be entered in the O. M.’s log as —
“A FIGHT WITH THE HOUNDS OF THE SEA.”
“It was just before daybreak on a dewy June morning of 1887, when a party of four set out to drift for shad. There was the rector (whom you know), my cousin B – (whom you don’t know), and myself (whom you think you know). We went to learn how the business of drifting was conducted. There was also the old fisherman, Chris, the owner of the shad-boat. He went for fish.
“By the time the long fathoms of brown net were unwound from the great creaking reel and coiled in the stern of the boat, the tide had turned, and a current had begun to set outward from the little creek in which our boat was moored. Our rusty mainsail was soon hoisted to catch the gentle catspaws from the shore, and we were underway.
“A word of explanation here. The shad-fishing of the Bay of Fundy is carried on, for the most part, by ‘drifting.’ The boats employed are roomy, heavy, single-masted craft, with a ‘cuddy,’ or forward cabin, in which two men may sleep with comfort. These craft, when loaded, draw several feet of water, and are hard to float off when they chance to run aground. They carry a deep keel, and are stanch sea-boats – as all boats need to be that navigate the rude waters of Fundy.
“When we had gained a few cable-lengths from shore the breeze freshened slightly. It was a mere zephyr, but it drove the boat too fast for us to pay out the net. We furled the sail, and thrust the boat along slowly with our heavy sweeps, while Chris paid out the net over the stern.
“These Fundy boats sometimes stay out several tides, making a haul with each tide; but it was our intention merely to drift out with this ebb, and return by the next flood.
“It was slow work for a while. We ate, told stories, speculated as to how many fish were entangling themselves in our meshes, and at about nine o’clock appealed to Chris to haul in.
“The tremendous tide had drifted us in five hours over twenty miles. We decided to run the boat into the mouth of a small river on our right to take a good swim before we started on the return trip. The plan was accepted by Chris, and we set ourselves to haul in the net.
“In the centre of the boat stood two huge tubs, into which we threw the silvery shad as we took them from the meshes. When we found a stray skate, squid, or sculpin, we returned it to its native element; but a small salmon we welcomed as a special prize, and laid it away in a wrapping of sail-cloth.
“The catch proved to be rather a light one, though Chris averred it was as good as any he had made that year.
“‘Why, what has become of the shad?’ asked the rector. ‘It seems to me that in former years one could sometimes fill these tubs in a single trip.’
“‘Ay, ay,’ growled Chris, ‘that’s true enough, sir! But the fishin’ ain’t now what it used to be; and it’s all along o’ them blamed dogfish.’
“‘What do the dogfish have to do with it?’ I asked.
“‘Do with it!’ answered Chris. ‘Why, they eat ’em. They eat everything they kin clap ther eye onto. They’re thicker’n bees in these here waters the last year er two back.’
“‘They are a kind of small shark, I believe?’ put in the rector in a tone of inquiry.
“‘Well, I reckon as how they be. An’ they’re worse nor any other kind as I’ve heern tell of, because they kinder hunt in packs like, an’ nothin’ ain’t a-goin’ to escape them, once they git onto it. I’ve caught ’em nigh onto four foot long, but mostly they run from two to three foot. They’re spry, I tell you, an’ with a mouth onto ’em like a fox-trap. They’re the worst varmin that swims; an’ good fer nothin’ but to make ile out of ther livers.’
“‘I’ve heard them called the “hounds of the sea,”’ said B – . ‘Are they bold enough to attack a man?’
“‘They’d attack an elephant, if they could git him in the water. An’ they’d eat him too,’ said Chris.
“‘I hope they won’t put in an appearance while we’re taking our swim,’ remarked, the rector. ‘I don’t think we had better swim far out.’
“By this time we were near the mouth of the stream, a broad, shallow estuary three or four hundred yards wide. In the middle was a gravelly shoal which was barely uncovered at low water, and was then marked by a line of seaweed and small stones. We bore up the northern channel, and saw that the shores were stony and likely to afford us a firm landing; but the channel was unfamiliar to Chris, and suddenly, with a soft thud, we found ourselves aground in a mud-bank, a hundred yards from shore. The tide had yet a few inches to fall, and we knew that we were fast for an hour or so.
“When we had got ourselves out of our clothes, the surface of the shoal in mid-channel was bare. It was about fifty yards from the boat, and we decided to swim over to it and look for anemones and starfish. B – , who was an indifferent swimmer, took an oar along with him to rest on if he should get tired. We laughed at him for the precaution as the distance was so short; but he retorted, —
“‘If any of those sea-dogs should turn up, you’ll find that said oar will come in pretty handy.’
“The water was of a delicious temperature; and we swam, floated, and basked in a leisurely fashion. When we had reached the bar the tide was about to turn. The Fundy tides may be said to have practically no slack; they have to travel so fast and so far that they waste no time in idleness. We hailed Chris, whom we had left in the boat, and told him the tide had turned.
“Chris rose from his lounging attitude in the stern, and took a look at the water. The next moment he was on his feet, yelling, ‘All aboard! all aboard! Here’s the dogfish a-comin’!’
“B – and I took the water at once, but the rector stopped us. ‘Back!’ he commanded. ‘They’re upon us already, and our only chance is here in the shoal water till Chris can get the boat over to us.’
“Even as he spoke we noted some small black fins cutting the water between the boat and our shoal. We turned back with alacrity.
“The first thing Chris did was to empty both barrels of my fowling-piece among the advancing fins. At once a great turmoil ensued, caused by the struggles of two or three wounded dogfish. The next moment their struggles were brought to an end. Their companions tore them to pieces in a twinkling.
“The rector shouted to Chris to try to throw us the boat-hook. It was a long throw, but Chris’s sinews rose to the emergency, and the boat-hook landed nearly at our feet. The boat-hook was followed by a broken gaff, which struck the sand at the farther side of the shoal.
“Meanwhile between us and the boat the water had become alive with dogfish. Our shoal sloped so abruptly that already they could swim up to within two or three feet of us. We knew that the tide would soon bring them upon us, and we turned cold as we thought what our fate would be unless Chris could reach us in time. Then the battle began.
“B – and I, with our awkward weapons, managed to stun a couple of our assailants. The rector’s boat-hook did more deadly execution; it tore the throat out of the first fish it struck. At once the pack scented their comrade’s blood, darted on the wounded fish, devoured it, and crowded after us for more.
“Our blows with the oar and gaff served temporarily to disable our assailants, but not gash their tough skin. But the moment blood was started on one of our enemies his comrades finished the work for us. Almost every stroke of the boat-hook tore a fish, which straightway became food for its fellows. The most I could do with my gaff was to tap a dogfish on the head when I could, and stun him for a while.
“During these exciting minutes the tide was rising with terrible speed. The water that now came washing over our toes was a lather of foam and blood, through which sharp, dark fins and long keen bodies darted and crowded and snapped.
“Suddenly one fish, fiercer than the rest, made a dart at B – ’s leg, and its sharp snout just grazed his skin, causing him to yell with horror. We tried to get our feet out of the water by standing on the highest stones we could find. Our arms were weary from wielding the oar and the gaff, but the rector’s boat-hook kept up its deadly lunges.
“Chris had been firing among our assailants; but now, beholding our strait, he threw down the gun, and strained furiously upon his one oar in the endeavor to shove off the boat. She would not budge.
“‘Boys, brace up! brace up!’ cried the rector. ‘She’ll float in another minute or two. We can give these chaps all they want.’ As he spoke, his boat-hook ripped another fish open. He had caught the knack of so using his weapon that he raked his opponents from underneath without wasting an ounce of effort.
“The fight was getting too hot to last. A big fish, with a most appalling array of fangs, snatched at my foot. Just in time I thrust the broken end of the gaff through his throat and turned him on his back. His neighbors took charge of him, and he vanished in bloody fragments.
“As I watched this an idea struck me.
“‘Chris!’ I yelled, ‘the shad! the shad! Throw them overboard, a dozen at a time!’
“‘Splendid!’ cried the rector; and B – panted approvingly, ‘That’s the talk! That’ll call ’em off.’
“Down came his oar with fresh vigor upon the head of a dogfish, which turned at once on its side. Then the shad began to go overboard.
“At first the throwing of the shad produced no visible effect, and the attack on us continued in unabated fury. Then the water began to foam and twist where the shad were dropping, and on a sudden we were left alone.
“The whole pack forsook us to attack the shad. How they fought and lashed and sprang and tore in one mad turmoil of foam and fish!
“‘Spread them a bit!’ B – cried. ‘Give them all a chance, or they’ll come back at us.’
“‘She’s afloat! she’s afloat!’ he yelled the next moment, in frantic delight.
“Chris threw out another dozen of fish. Then he thrust his oar over the stern, and the big boat moved slowly toward us. At intervals Chris stopped and threw out more shad. As we eagerly watched his approach the thought occurred to us that when the boat should reach us it would be with the whole pack surrounding it. The ravenous creatures seemed almost ready to leap aboard.
“‘We can use these oars and things as leaping-poles,’ suggested B – .
“‘That’s what we’ll have to do,’ agreed the rector. Then he cried to Chris, ‘Bring her side onto the shoal, so we can all jump aboard at the same time.’
“As the boat drew nearer, Chris paused again, and threw a score of shad far astern. Away darted the dogfish; and the boat rounded up close before us.
“The agility with which we sprang aboard was remarkable, and Chris almost hugged us in his joy.
“‘Not another shad’ll they git out er me!’ he declared triumphantly.
“‘Well, I should rather think not,” remarked the rector. ‘But they might as well have some more dogfish.’
“With these words he put his foot upon the gunwale, and his unwearying boat-hook went back jubilantly into the battle.
“Rapidly loading and firing my shotgun, I picked off as many of our enemies as I comfortably could; and B – , by lashing the boat’s hatchet on the end of the gaff, made a weapon with which he played havoc among our foes.
“But the fray lasted not much longer. Innumerable as were yet the survivors, their hunger was becoming appeased, and their ferocity diminished. In a little while they sheered off to a safer distance.
“When we had time to think of our own condition, we found that our backs were painfully scorched by the blazing June sun. As with pain we struggled into our clothes, Chris trimmed our course toward home.
“‘I reckon you know now ’bout all you’ll wanter know ’bout the ways o’ dogfish,’ he suggested.
“‘They are certainly very bloodthirsty,’ said the rector; ‘but at the same time they are interesting. That they gave us a noble contest you can’t deny.’”
When Queerman relapsed into silence, Ranolf took up the parable without waiting to be called upon.
“Queerman’s story,” said he, “reminds me of an adventure of my own, which befell me in that same tide-region which he has just been talking of. You know, I spent much of my illustrious boyhood about the Tantramar marshes, and overlooking the yellow head-waters of the Bay of Fundy. The name of my story is, ‘The Bull and the Leaping-Pole,’ and the scene of it is within a mile of the spot whence Queerman and his crowd set out for shad. It will serve to show what agility I am capable of on a suitable occasion.
THE BULL AND THE LEAPING-POLE
“Out on the Tantramar marshes the wind, as usual, was racing with superfluous energy, bowing all one way the purple timothy-tops, and rolling up long green waves of grass that shimmered like the sea under the steady afternoon sun. I revelled in the fresh and breezy loneliness, which nevertheless at times gave me a sort of thrill, as the bobolinks, stopping their song for a moment, left no sound in my ears save the confused ‘swish’ of the wind. Men talk at times of the loneliness of the dark, but to my mind there is no more utter solitude than may be found in a broad white glare of sunshine.
“Here on the marsh, two miles from the skirt of the uplands, perhaps half a mile from the nearest incurve of the dike, on a twisted, sweet-smelling bed of purple vetch, I lay pretending to read, and deliciously dreaming. My bed of vetch sloped gently toward the sun, being on the bank of a little winding creek which idled through the long grasses on its way to the Tantramar. Once a tidal stream, the creek had been brought into subjection by what the country people call a ‘bito,’ built across its mouth to shut out the tides; and now it was little more than a rivulet at the bottom of the deep gash which it had cut for itself through the flats in its days of freedom. From my resting-place I could see in the distance a marsh-hawk noiselessly skimming the tops of the grass, peering for field-mice; or a white gull wandering aimlessly in from the sea. Beyond the dike rose the gaunt skeletons of three or four empty net-reels; and a little way off towards the uplands stood an old barn used for storing hay.
“Beside me among the vetch-blossoms, hummed about by the great bumblebees and flickered over by white and yellow butterflies, lay my faithful leaping-pole, – a straight young spruce trimmed and peeled, light and white and tough. Some years before, fired by reading in Hereward of the feats of ‘Wulfric the Heron,’ I had bent myself to learn to leap with the pole, and had become no less skilful in the exercise than eagerly devoted thereto. It gave me, indeed, a most fascinating sense of freedom. Ditches, dikes, and fences were of small concern to me, and I went craning it over the country like a huge meadow-hen.
“On this particular afternoon, which I am not likely soon to forget, when the bobolinks had hushed for so long that the whispering stillness grew oppressive, I became ashamed of the weird apprehension which kept stealing across me; and springing to my feet with a shout, I seized my leaping-pole, and went sailing over the creek hilariously. It was a good leap, and I contemplated the distance with satisfaction, marred only by the fact that I had no spectators.
“Then I shouted again, from full lungs; and turning instinctively for applause toward the far-off uplands, I became aware that I was not so much alone as I had fancied.
“From behind the old barn, at the sound of my voice, appeared a head and shoulders which I recognized, and at the sight of which my satisfaction vanished. They belonged to Atkinson’s bull, a notoriously dangerous brute, which only the week before had gored a man fatally, and which had thereupon been shut up and condemned to the knife. As was evident, he had broken out of his pen, and wandering hither to the marshes, had been luxuriating in such plenty of clover as well might have rendered him mild-mannered. I thought of this for a moment; but the faint hope – it was very faint – was at once and emphatically dispelled.
“Slowly, and with an ugly bellow, he walked his whole black-and-white length into view, took a survey of the situation, and then, after a moment’s pawing, and some insulting challenges which I did not feel in a position to accept, he launched himself toward me with a sort of horrid grunt.