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“Ye did weel, Dud,” puffed McLeod; “varra weel indeed–for the coo!”

“After that,” continued Hemenway, “of course my nerve was a little shaken, and we went back to the main camp on the river, to rest over Sunday. That was all right, wasn’t it, Mac!”

“Aye!” replied McLeod, who was a strict member of the Presbyterian church at Moncton. “That was surely a varra safe thing to do. Even a hunter, I’m thinkin’, wouldna like to be breakin’ twa commandments in the ane day–the foorth and the saxth!”

“Perhaps not. It’s enough to break one, as you do once a fortnight when you run your train into Riviere du Loup Sunday morning. How’s that, you old Calvinist?”

“Dudley, ma son,” said the engineer, “dinna airgue a point that ye canna understond. There’s guid an’ suffeecient reasons for the train. But ye’ll ne’er be claimin’ that moose huntin’ is a wark o’ necessity or maircy?”

“No, no, of course not; but then, you see, barring Sundays, we felt that it was necessary to do all we could to get a moose, just for the sake of our reputations. Billy, the cook, was particularly strong about it. He said that an old woman in Bathurst, a kind of fortune teller, had told him that he was going to have ‘la bonne chance’ on this trip. He wanted to try his own mouth at ‘calling.’ He had never really done it before. But he had been practicing all winter in imitation of a tame cow moose that Johnny Moreau had, and he thought he could make the sound ‘b’en bon.’ So he got the birch-bark horn and gave us a sample of his skill. McDonald told me privately that it was ‘nae sa bad; a deal better than Pete’s feckless bellow.’ We agreed to leave the Indian to keep the camp (after locking up the whisky flask in my bag), and take Billy with us on Monday to ‘call’ at Hogan’s Pond.

“It’s a small bit of water, about three quarters of a mile long and four hundred yards across, and four miles back from the river. There is no trail to it, but a blazed line runs part of the way, and for the rest you follow up the little brook that runs out of the pond. We stuck up our shelter in a hollow on the brook, half a mile below the pond, so that the smoke of our fire would not drift over the hunting ground, and waited till five o’clock in the afternoon. Then we went up to the pond, and took our position in a clump of birch trees on the edge of the open meadow that runs round the east shore. Just at dark Billy began to call, and it was beautiful. You know how it goes. Three short grunts, and then a long ooooo-aaaa-ooooh, winding up with another grunt! It sounded lonelier than a love-sick hippopotamus on the house top. It rolled and echoed over the hills as if it would wake the dead.

“There was a fine moon shining, nearly full, and a few clouds floating by. Billy called, and called, and called again. The air grew colder and colder; light frost on the meadow grass; our teeth were chattering, fingers numb.

“Then we heard a bull give a short bawl, away off to the southward. Presently we could hear his horns knock against the trees, far up on the hill. McDonald whispered, ‘He’s comin’,’ and Billy gave another call.

“But it was another bull that answered, back of the north end of the pond, and pretty soon we could hear him rapping along through the woods. Then everything was still. ‘Call agen,’ says McDonald, and Billy called again.

“This time the bawl came from another bull, on top of the western hill, straight across the pond. It seemed to start up the other two bulls, and we could hear all three of them thrashing along, as fast as they could come, towards the pond. ‘Call agen, a wee one,’ says McDonald, trembling with joy. And Billy called a little seducing call, with two grunts at the end.