e bear would give
a new roar, but nothing be visible. It was most puzzling.

"Where in the mischief is Bimber?" the prisoner kept asking himself,
until he almost forgot his own peril.

Then the terrier suddenly appeared, facing his big enemy, and scolding
the best he knew how. The grizzly whirled round and made a dash, but the
dog was twice as agile, and in an instant was safe, in that burrow
between the roots.

The bear tried to reach in, first one paw and then another, and so drag
its small enemy out, but such tactics were of no avail. The dog simply
retreated until Bob could scarcely hear its voice, and never once
ventured within reach of those formidable claws.

"Maybe I can frighten the beast," thought Bob, as he drew his small
double-barrelled pistol from his belt and fired.

The bear gave a roar as the little bullet stung his shoulder, and,
dropping the shot-gun, came rushing back to the tree, where it reared up
savagely, only to receive the contents of the other barrel, making a
scalp wound, which brought out another terrific growl, while Bimber was
able to take a nip at a hind leg and escape.

This last bit of impudence was too much. Bruin was thoroughly enraged.
He tore at the mouth of the burrow as though he meant to dig it out in
three minutes, but the tough roots were in the way, and before long he
gave up the task, and, as if decided upon a siege, lay down squarely
across the hole and began rubbing his sore head.

For an hour or more the boy sat there, when suddenly an idea occurred to
him.

His powder-flask still hung around his neck. Unscrewing its cap, he
poured into his left hand as much gunpowder as it could conveniently
hold, and replaced the cap. Reaching up to the nest, he lifted out one
of the hawk's eggs, broke it gently, and let a little quantity of the
sticky "white" run into the powder in his palm. This done, he mixed the
two together, adding more of one or the other as needed, until he had
formed a paste that suited him. This paste be shaped into a roll or cord
around a ravelling from his coat lining, which served as a sort of wick,
coiled it closely, and laid it on the branch beside him. This was a
"spitting devil," such as he had often used to make Fourth-of-July fun
with. He then made two more.

With as little noise as possible Bob crept down to the lowest limb,
where he was directly over the huge mass of fur, and twisted his legs
round the limb so as to leave both arms free. Ho