"Poor old boy, poor old Fido," he said, in a low voice, stroking his head.
Don turned away and walked whistling toward the bear.

As he sat beside the black carcass his two dogs came to him.

He threw his arms round them, saying, "Poor old Blackie! Poor Nigger!" and he understood how Hughie was feeling behind the spruce-tree beside the faithful dog that had given him his life.
As he sat there waiting for Hughie, he heard voices.
"Horo!" he shouted.
"Where are you?
Is that you, Don ?" It was his father's voice.
"Yes, here we are." "Is Hughie there ?" inquired another voice.
"Losh me! that's the minister," said Don.

"Yes, all right," he cried aloud, as up came Long John Cameron and the minister, with Fusie and a stranger bringing up the rear.
"Fine work, this.

You're fine fellows, indeed," cried Long John, "frightening people in this way." "Where is Hughie ?" said the minister, sternly.
Hughie came from behind the brush, hurriedly wiping his eyes.