“‘Spree!’ says the Duke of Wellington’s nephew.

“‘Spree, do you call it?” says I. ‘Look out.’

“There, sticking out under a bush, was nothing less than the nose of a bear. The Duke of Wellington’s nephew was up a tree like a shot; I stood quietly on the ground, as cool as I am at this moment, loaded my gun, and climbed up the tree. There was only one bough.

“‘Bon,’ said the Duke of Wellington’s nephew, ‘you’d better sit in front.’

“‘All right,’ said I; ‘but keep your gun ready. There are more coming.’ He’d got his face buried in my back.

“‘How many are there?’ said he.

“‘Four,’ said I.

“‘How many are there now?’ said he.

“‘Eight,’ said I.

“‘How many are there now?’ said he.

“‘Ten,’ said I.

“‘Ten! ten!’ said he; and down goes his gun.

“‘Wallie,’ I said, ‘what have you done? We’re dead men now.’

“‘Bon, my old fellow,’ said he, ‘I couldn’t help it, my hands trembled so!’

“‘Wall,’ I said, turning round and seizing his hand, ‘Wallie, my dear lad, good-by. I’m not afraid to die. My legs are long — they hang down — the first bear that comes and I don’t hit him, off goes my foot. When he takes it I shall give you my gun and go. You may yet be saved; but tell, oh, tell Mary Ann that I thought of her, that I prayed for her!’

“‘Good-by, old fellow!’ said he.

“‘God bless you!’ said I.

“By this time the bears were sitting in a circle all round the tree. Yes,” said Bonaparte impressively, fixing his eyes on the German, “a regular, exact circle. The marks of their tails were left in the snow, and I measured it afterward; a drawing-master couldn’t have done it better. It was that saved me. If they’d rushed on me at once, poor old Bon would never have been here to tell this story. But they came on, sir, systematically, one by one. All the rest sat on their tails and waited. The first fellow came up, and I shot him; the second fellow — I shot him; the third — I shot him. And last the tenth came; he was the biggest of all — the leader, you may say.

“‘Wall,’ I said, ‘give me your hand. My fingers are stiff with the cold; there is only one bullet left. I shall miss him. While he is eating me you get down and take your gun; and live, dear friend, live to remember the man who gave his life for you!’ By that time the bear was at me. I felt his paw on my trousers.

“‘Oh, Bonnie! Bonnie!’ said the Duke of Wellington’s nephew. But I just took my gun, and put the muzzle to the bear’s ear — over he fell — dead!”

Bonaparte Blenkins waited to observe what effect his story had made. Then he took out a dirty white handkerchief, and stroked his forehead, and more especially his eyes.