They had been sitting on an old log for several minutes when, suddenly, a short distance away to their right, came a sound which made Bob jump to his feet. It sounded like the noise which a small boy makes when he blows on a horn made from a pumpkin vine. “That’s a bull moose,” Bob said in a low tone, “and I’m afraid he’s coming this way.” The boys had seen a number of deer since leaving the Carry the previous day, but although they had crossed a number of tracks, they had sighted no moose. Usually unless wounded a moose will run from man, but if hurt they will not hesitate to attack, striking with their fore feet and horns. A single blow from one of the sharp hoofs is almost always fatal. “What of it?” Jack asked as he too got to his feet. “This isn’t the mating season and he’ll run as soon as he sees us.” “He will unless he happens to be hurt,” Bob agreed as he peered through the thick trees. Just then the call sounded and this time it was much nearer. “He’s coming all right and it sounds to me as though he was mad about something. There he comes, see,” and Bob pointed with his hand. The moose, a magnificent specimen, as large as a large horse, was slowly making his way toward them, sinking nearly to his belly in the deep snow. A moose’s sense of smell is very keenly developed but a fairly strong wind was blowing toward the boys and, as they kept very quiet, he was unaware of their presence until he was less than thirty feet from them. “If he charges jump for that tree,” Bob whispered. As soon as the moose saw the two boys he stopped and for a moment stood gazing at them as though undecided what to do about it. “Look, Bob,” Jack whispered, “No wonder he’s mad. Look at that right shoulder.” Bob looked and saw that the shoulder was badly torn and was bleeding freely. Bob did not have time to speak for, at that moment the moose, evidently deciding that, in some way, the two boys were responsible for his injury, lowered his head and with an angry snort plunged forward. “Quick old man. He’s coming. Grab your snow-shoes,” he shouted as he made for a big spruce with low branches. Fortunately their packs were at the foot of this tree and as Bob leaped for the lowest bough and swung himself up Jack quickly handed them to him. Although the snow was deep and the moose was unable to make fast time, there was no time to lose and Jack barely escaped the horns as he swung himself up beside Bob. “I thought you’d never get those bags up,” Bob said with a sigh of relief. The moose stood at the foot of the tree angrily pawing the snow and sending call after call through the forest. “Sorry we can’t accept your kind invitation and come down,” Jack chuckled from his perch some ten feet above the moose’s head. “But really I don’t like the looks of those horns. I say, Bob, how long do you think our friend will favor us with his company?”