. He, entirely
unabashed, returned my gaze--a funny little ruffian! On the end of his
spinal column he teetered, all four feet in the air, the cock of his
head irresistibly suggesting the tilt of a gamin's cap. His tongue
hung waggishly out of his mouth, and a sort of loose, dissipated,
tough, cynical humour pervaded his person, from the squint of his
little eyes to the absurd post of his hind legs. There was less of the
immature bear about him than of the miniature bear. I suppose a young
wild animal is like a street Arab, in that he receives his worldly
knowledge with his milk.

He had on a collar and chain, whereby I recognised he was someone's
property. To clear this part of history, the two small boys had been
hired to take him to Mr. D----'s menagerie, when, after a struggle, he
had been ensconced beneath the bushel basket. They were not the happy
youths I had taken them for, these boys,--how often we envy the lot of
others unwisely!--for they were obliged to sit on the basket in order
to retain their captive, dreading all the time what a moment's
carelessness brought to pass, an attack from beneath. When one
incautious foot ventured too near the basket, Mr. Bear promptly clawed
and chewed it; hence the shrieks, and the flight.

Well, not wishing this piece of live stock to escape, I walked toward
him, affecting the unconcern necessary in approaching an animal. He
did not retreat; he swayed on his spine and regarded me jeeringly. I
grabbed the chain and pulled. Instantly, he nailed me by the leg. He
had nothing but milk teeth, or I should have been much the worse for
the encounter. As it was, he pinched like a vise with his strong
little jaws, and I had all I wanted to pry him loose. I tried to hold
him at arm's length, but he turned inside of his baggy overcoat and bit
and clawed until I gave that up. I then whirled him at the end of the
chain. He flew through the air with spread legs until the chain
snapped, when he landed many yards away. He was up and off as soon as
he stopped rolling, and I after him. The boy who was running the
clothing store several vacant lots from the office came to his door at
that moment, and, feeling that a bear hunt was more to his taste than
twiddling his thumbs in an empty store, he came along, too, and the
flour office and the clothing store were left in the hands of
Providence--fortunately there were no thieves in old-time Dakota.

In front was young Mr. Bear,