"Nothing 'yellow' about that old rascal but his hide," commented Dick.
"A fighter from Fightersville," added Tom.
When their jubilation had somewhat subsided, they measured their quarry.
"Ten feet four inches, from the tip of the nose to the root of the tail,"
announced Tom. "Gee, but he's a monster."
"The daddy of them all," said Dick.
"He must weigh over half a ton," judged Bert.
They looked with a shudder at the terrible claws and fangs.
"They say that a grizzly has forty-two teeth," remarked Tom, "but I
thought he had forty-two thousand when he was bearing down upon us with
his mouth open."
"Well, now the question is what are we going to do with him," said Dick.
"That's a pleasant way to put it," laughed Bert. "A little while ago the
question was what was he going to do with us."
"I don't know," he mused, "what we can do. We can't skin him, because we
haven't the proper knives, and then, too, it takes an expert to get that
hide off without spoiling it. On the other hand, we can't leave it here
and expect to find it in the morning.
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