"Can't never break a bear's neck by shutin' 'im in the hin'
quarters," he remarked.

I made no answer.

"Might jest es well spit 'n 'is face," he added presently; "jest
eggzac'ly."

This apt and forceful advice calmed a lingering sense of duty, and
he rode on awhile in silence. The woods were glooming in the
early dusk when he spoke again. Something revived his contempt of
my education. He had been trailing after me, and suddenly I felt
his knee.

"Tell ye this, Ray," said he, in a kindly tone. "Ef ye wan' t' git
a bear, got t' mux 'im up a leetle for'ard--right up 'n the
neighborhood uv 'is fo'c's'le. Don't dew no good t' shute 'is
hams. Might es well try t' choke 'im t' death by pinchin' 'is
tail."

We were out in the open. Roofs and smoking chimneys were
silhouetted on the sky, and, halfway up a hill, we could see the
candle-lights of the red tavern. There, in the bar, before blazing
logs in a great fireplace, for the evening had come chilly, a table
was laid for us, and we sat down with hearty happiness to tankards
of old ale and a smoking haunch. I have never drunk or eaten with
a better relish. There were half a dozen or so sitting about the
bar, and all ears were for news of the army and all hands for our
help. If we asked for more potatoes or ale, half of them rose to
proclaim it. Between pipes of Virginia tobacco, and old sledge,