Beta Book

Among the pines. Dead o' winter. Only one shell in his
rifle. Cold of winter. Snow--deep snow. Snow-shoes. Hiking
along--reg'lar mushing--packing grub to the lumber-camp. Way up
near the Canadian border. Cold, terrible cold. Stars looked
like little bits of steel.
Mr. Wrenn thought he remembered the story. He had read it in a
magazine. Morton was continuing:
Snow stretched out among the pines. He was wearing a Mackinaw
and shoe-packs. Saw a bear loping along. He had--Morton had--a
.44-.40 Marlin, but only one shell. Thrust the muzzle of his
rifle right into the bear's mouth. Scared for a minute. Almost
fell off his snow-shoes. Hardest thing he ever did, to pull that
trigger. Fired. Bear sort of jumped at him, then rolled over, clawing.
Great place, those Minnesota Big--
"What's a shoe-pack?" the Englishman stolidly interjected.
"Kind of a moccasin.... Great place, those woods. Hope your
brother gets the chance to get up there."
"I say, I wonder did you ever meet him? Scrabble is his name,
Jock Scrabble.


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