and shutting them like a baby who has got a feather stuck to its
fingers and doesn't know what to do with it, But he was too sleepy to
bother about his appearance. He just waddled over to a sort of nook
between the roots of the next tree, curled up with his sticky nose
between his sticky paws, and was soon snoring."

"And did he ever get out of that deep hole?" inquired the Babe, always
impatient of the abrupt way in which Uncle Andy was wont to end his
stories.

"Of course he got out. He climbed out," answered Uncle Andy. "Do you
suppose a bear like that could be kept shut up long? And now I think
we might be getting out, too! I don't hear any more humming outside,
so I reckon the coast's about clear."

He peered forth cautiously.

"It's all right. Come along," he said. "And there's my pipe at the
foot of the rock, just where I dropped it," he added, in a tone of
great satisfaction. Then, with mud-patched, swollen faces, and crooked
but cheerful smiles, the two refugees emerged into the golden light of
the afternoon, and stretched themselves. But, as Uncle Andy surveyed
first the Babe and then himself in the unobstructed light, his smile
faded.

"I'm afraid Bill's going to have the laugh on us when we get home!"
said he.