The bear bowled
triumphantly and jerked the coat into the tent and took two bites, a
punch and a hug before he, discovered his man was not in it. Then he
grew not very angry, for a bear on a spree is not a black-haired pirate.
He is merely a hoodlum. He lay down on his back, took the coat on his
four paws and began to play uproariously with it. The most appalling,
blood-curdling whoops and yells came to where the little man was crying
in a treetop and froze his blood. He moaned a little speech meant for a
prayer and clung convulsively to the bending branches. He gazed with
tearful wistfulness at where his comrade, the campfire, was giving dying
flickers and crackles. Finally, there was a roar from the tent which
eclipsed all roars; a snarl which it seemed would shake the stolid
silence of the mountain and cause it to shrug its granite shoulders. The
little man quaked and shrivelled to a grip and a pair of eyes. In the
glow of the embers he saw the white tent quiver and fall with a crash.
The bear's merry play had disturbed the center pole and brought a chaos
of canvas upon his head.
Now the little man became the witness of a mighty scene. The tent began
to flounder. It took flopping strides in the direction of the lake.
Marvellous sounds came from within--rips and tears, and great groans and
pants. The little man went into giggling hysterics.
The entangled monster failed to extricate himself before he had walloped
the tent frenziedly to the edge of the mountain.
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