Broiled trout washed down with an ice-cold draught of spring water is not the worst supper in the world, and when you are out in the woods cozily perched on a log near a roaring camp-fire of crackling birch, with a ravenous appetite, it tastes as good as a dinner served at the Waldorf in New York. But your trout must be cooked by Bill to be enjoyed, for Bill owns no superior in that line. Bill is a hunter, not for market, but a sportsman for sport, and his delight is to guide some gentleman through the forests of Maine, or, as he terms it, his territory.

One fall he and I started up in the Moose-head Lake region, and slowly worked down over the trails, until one evening we found ourselves near the head of the Cupsuptic River, on the Rangeleys. We had fairly good sport on our way, bagging more or less game, with many a long and weary chase on a deer trail. When we struck the river it was too late to make for a large camp that lay some eleven miles below on the lake, so we put up a lean-to, and went into quarters for the night. Bill got out the lines, and in a short while he had some fine trout broiling, so that though all our provisions were exhausted, we had made a fine supper of the trout.

After supper we lighted our pipes, and throwing an extra log or two on the fire, we lounged around, recalling different adventures. It was but a short time before Bill got off on to some of his own experiences, and it was then that I relapsed into silence, and puffed my pipe with that peaceful enjoyment that comes to a lover of nature and sport. I lay admiring his magnificent physique, my admiration doubled by the knowledge of the wonderful strength that lay in his powerful muscles.

"Well, boy," said Bill at last, with a yawn, "it's gettin' kind er cold; seems to me it's er bit more than frosty. Had to crack ice down on the stream to ketch them trout. Guess it'll freeze tight by to-morrow, and with a little fall of snow we might sight a buck's tracks 'tween here and the camp below. I rather think we'd better turn in now. Wrap yourself good or you'll be stiff in the mornin'."

Raking the ashes into the fire, and banking it a little with some damp logs, we rolled up in our blankets and went to sleep.

I do not know what time it was, but it seemed to me I had no more than closed my eyes when I was suddenly awakened by the sounds of a fierce struggle, with a great amount of low choking, growling, and subdued muttering. I sprang up, forgetting my blanket, which tripped me, and nearly pitched me headlong into the fire. When I finally reached my feet and saw the cause of the row, I was more than amazed. There was Bill hugging and being hugged for dear life by a good-sized bear. It was nip and tuck, and seizing my rifle, I danced around trying to get a shot at the bear. Bill caught sight of me, and cried out in jerks: "Boy—I'll never—forgive you if you kill him. It's the first,—chance I've had to strangle—a bear, and, by gum, I'm er-goin' to strangle—this one!"

I could appreciate that sort of a desire on Bill's part well enough, but nevertheless it was dangerous work. The bear's claws had already played havoc with his clothing, and his legs were bleeding in more than one place. Back and forth they struggled, one of the bear's fore-paws around Bill's neck and the other around his waist. Bill had the bear by the throat with one hand, and with the other held his head away to stop him from biting.

Suddenly they tripped on the edge of the slope that led in a gentle descent to the stream below. I jumped forward this time, determined to put an end to it, but before I could reach them, down they went, rolling over and over the sloping ground, fighting away like mad, until, with a crash, they struck the thin ice on the stream and plunged out of sight. It was a bright moonlight night, and the hole they made in the ice looked black and ugly. I jumped down the bank, and seeing the roots of an old tree running out near the spot, I made for it. Bill came up by this time, and I was hoping that they had separated, but they were hugging and fighting as hard as ever. I crawled out on the roots and yelled to Bill to let me settle it.

"If yer tetch him, boy, I'll never forgive yer. I'm not done yet by a long shot, and I'll down the critter if it takes all night."

When Bill talked that way I know he was game to the finish and his blood was up, so I ran up the bank and got my rifle, and sitting on a log near the water, I watched the fun, altogether too serious for fun, I thought. Their struggles were fearful, and I screamed, and would certainly have fired at the bear had it not been for the fear of hitting Bill. By this time they had worked over to the roots, and then I realized what Bill was up to. He got one arm around them to brace himself, and with the other clutching the bear's throat, he slowly and by main force pushed those fearful red gaping jaws away from him. Slowly and with almost superhuman strength he pushed the head further away until finally he forced it under water. I could see the claws of the animal's fore-paw dig into Bill's shoulder. I could see his violent struggles as he strove to get his head above water, but Bill held him under. It was a frightful but a grand sight. The moon lit up the scene, and through the steam rising from the struggling pair Bill's grim-set jaws and determined face showed the true hunter in the height of his glory.

The fight grew weaker and weaker, and then all was still except the quick panting of Bill. At last with a deep sigh his chest relaxed, his hand gave up his prey, and a few bubbles showed where the bear sank. Slowly Bill made his way to where I was standing, and putting out his hand, said,

"Thank ye, boy; you had nerve to obey me, and that makes a good hunter."

He was pretty nigh exhausted and badly clawed. While I helped him to patch up his wounds temporarily I learned that the bear, evidently attracted by the trout, had sneaked into camp during the night and stumbled over Bill, who grabbed him. The next morning we fished him out of the water, and found him a large specimen and a foe well worth letting alone.

Hubert Earl.