sitting peaceably beside him, whose outer
and tangible garment appeared to be of a
furry texture, and that Billy—as a natural
consequence of his assumed condition—was
disposed to be sociable and communicative.

The legend proceeds to state, that Billy
made several unsuccessful attempts to engage
the bear in conversation.

We have hinted that the bear was taciturn.
There was every excuse for his observing
this apparently churlish demeanour. In the
first place he was naturally ignorant of the
English language. In the second, he laboured
under the physical disadvantage of being
muzzled. Billy, it may be fairly supposed,
was not able to notice this physical
inconvenience; or it is probable that he would
have treated the bear with greater
consideration than he did.

However, it took a long time to offend
Billy. He wanted to talk. Having exhausted
general topics—in which the stranger might
be naturally indisposed to take an interest—
the gallant but perhaps (well, yes, he must
have been, so let us consider the matter
settled) intoxicated captain, proceeded to
more personal questions. It struck him that
he would start a delicate compliment to his
neighbour's taste and judgment in dress.
Now, to withstand that kind of blandishment
one must be a bear indeed!

"Famous top-coat that o' yourn, sir," said
Billy, admiringly smoothing the bear's left
shoulder. "Beautiful top-coat, to be sure."

The bear may have thought so too; but,
as has been shown, there were insurmountable
obstacles to his expressing an opinion
upon that or any other subject.

"Good sort of coat that for the pits," pursued
the undaunted Billy. "Water 'd trickle
off it just the very thing like off a oont's*
back. Wouldn't it, now?"

* An oont, reader, in West-country dialect, means a
mole.

The bear was obstinately silent, and here,
I think, he was to blame. He might have
grunted, at least.

Bill was not yet beaten. He pursued:

"Excuse my freedom, sir, as a poor man
and a perfect stranger; but might I ask what
would be the cost of a top-coat like that,
for I should like to have one, if within
means?"

Still the bear didn't say a word.

Captain Billy was now fairly huffed.
Human blood is apt to get warm down in
those gaseous tin mines, and Billy felt this
was a poor return for his persistent civility.
He opened and shut his hands, loosened his
biceps muscles, and clutched at the air as if
meditating vengeance, in a Cornish manner,
at the earliest opportunity. Having grasped
and thrown a few imaginary foes over the
back of the coach, and feeling himself in
training for any encounter, Billy deliberately
proceeded to provoke the bear by insult.

He spoke at that unoffending personage in
the third person.

"Well! I ain't a judge of breeding, perhaps,
but it ain't my idea of a gentleman!"

Billy was quite right. The bear was no
gentleman.

The showman here interposed. He fully
understood the state of the case, which he
had watched from its commencement. Nursing
his monkey affectionately in his lap (and
winking at the coachman and passengers), he
said to Captain Billy—in pretty fair English
—with a mischievous Italian smile,—

"You must not be offended with him.
He does not understand your language. He
is a Russian."

"Rooshan, eh?" said Billy, rather
exasperated than pacified by the explanation.
"Bra-ave, ugly chap, sure he is, too. Can
her wrussel?"

"O, yes; the Russians are very fine
wrestlers," said the Italian.

"Well! there's wrusslers in Cornwall,
too." The wrathful Captain again clutched
the air as he spoke.

"You had better not try with him," the
showman went on. "He has one terrible grip."

"So they said of the Westmoreland man
last winter, but I throwed him over my head,
and could have done it with my hat on."

"Ah! but the Russians have one hug of
their own."

"So've we; and it's thought a good'un,"
said Billy, tartly.

And then I think Billy must have sought
solace in the case-bottle, and fallen asleep,
murmuring contemptuous defiance against
the Rooshan nation collectively.

History at any rate insists upon the fact,
that at the first halting place, Captain Billy
on descending, staggering or tumbling from
the roof of the coach, knocked against his late
neighbour, the bear, lately assisted by his
master in descending to terra firma, to the
admiration of numerous bystanders, and
became indignant at what he conceived to be
a fresh insult to the British flag at the hands
of perfidious Muscovy. Billy rushed blindly
at his insulter, whom he seized by the
shoulders, after the manner of his county,
preparing to initiate him into the mysteries
of the Cornish hug.

The bear, of course, didn't like this, and
retaliated after the custom of his race and
district. Equally, as a matter of course,
Captain Billy Tregear didn't like that.

"Here, I say," Billy gasped, rapidly
collapsing within the slowly closing hug of his
adversary, "this ain't wrussling!"

The bear was impervious to argument as
on former occasions. To his horror, Billy
felt sharp fangs entering a fleshy portion of
his torso. It was a pity he had not better
studied the Russian character.

"Here, I say! You're a clau-ing me.
This ain't fair! Help! Murder!"

Billy's eyes rolled wildly in search of