A few
strong claw marks, and the lick of a moist tongue here and there,
explain the matter. It shows the extremes of Mooween's taste. Next to
honey he prefers red ants, which are sour as pickles.
Mooween is even more expert as a boxer than as a fisherman. When the
skin is stripped from his fore arms, they are seen to be of great
size, with muscles as firm to the touch as so much rubber. Long
practice has made him immensely strong, and quick as a flash to ward
and strike. Woe be to the luckless dog, however large, that ventures
in the excitement of the hunt within reach of his paw. A single swift
stroke will generally put the poor brute out of the hunt forever.
Once Simmo caught a bear by the hind leg in a steel trap. It was a
young bear, a two-year-old; and Simmo thought to save his precious
powder by killing it with a club. He cut a heavy maple stick and,
swinging it high above his head, advanced to the trap. Mooween rose to
his hind legs, and looked him steadily in the eye, like the trained
boxer that he is. Down came the club with a sweep to have felled an
ox. There was a flash from Mooween's paw; the club spun away into the
woods; and Simmo just escaped a fearful return blow by dropping to
the ground and rolling out of reach, leaving his cap in Mooween's
claws.
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