This passage is excerpted from Jack London, The Scarlet Plague. Originally published in 1915.
An old man and a boy travelled along this runway. They
moved slowly, for the old man was very old, his movements
tremulous, and he leaned heavily upon his staff. A rude skull-
cap of goat-skin protected his head from the sun. From beneath
this fell a scant fringe of stained and dirty-white hair. A visor,
ingeniously made from a large leaf, shielded his eyes, and from
under this he peered at the way of his feet on the trail. His
beard, which should have been snow-white but which showed
the same weather-wear and camp-stain as his hair, fell nearly to
his waist in a great tangled mass. About his chest and shoulders
hung a single, mangy garment of goat-skin. His arms and legs,
withered and skinny, betokened extreme age, as well as did
their sunburn and scars and scratches betoken long years of
exposure to the elements.
The boy, who led the way, checking the eagerness of his
muscles to the slow progress of the elder, likewise wore a
single garment—a ragged-edged piece of bear-skin, with a hole
in the middle through which he had thrust his head. He could
not have been more than twelve years old. Tucked coquettishly
over one ear was the freshly severed tail of a pig. In one hand
he carried a medium-sized bow and an arrow.
On his back was a quiverful of arrows. From a sheath
hanging about his neck on a thong, projected the battered
handle of a hunting knife. He was as brown as a berry, and
walked softly, with almost a catlike tread. In marked contrast
with his sunburned skin were his eyes—blue, deep blue, but
keen and sharp as a pair of gimlets. They seemed to bore into
aft about him in a way that was habitual. As he went along he
smelled things, as well, his distended, quivering nostrils
carrying to his brain an endless series of messages from the
outside world. Also, his hearing was acute, and had been so
trained that it operated automatically. Without conscious effort,
he heard all the slight sounds in the apparent quiet—heard, and
differentiated, and classified these sounds—whether they were
of the wind rustling the leaves, of the humming of bees and
gnats, of the distant rumble of the sea that drifted to him only
in lulls, or of the gopher, just under his foot, shoving a
pouchful of earth into the entrance of his hole.
Suddenly he became alertly tense. Sound, sight, and odor
had given him a simultaneous warning. His hand went back to
the old man, touching him, and the pair stood still. Ahead, at
one side of the top of the embankment, arose a crackling sound,
and the boy’s gaze was fixed on the tops of the agitated
bushes. Then a large bear, a grizzly, crashed into view, and
likewise stopped abruptly, at sight of the humans. He did not
like them, and growled querulously. Slowly the boy fitted the
arrow to the bow, and slowly he pulled the bowstring taut. But
he never removed his eyes from the bear.
The old man peered from under his green leaf at the danger,
and stood as quietly as the boy. For a few seconds this mutual
scrutinizing went on; then, the bear betraying a growing
irritability, the boy, with a movement of his head, indicated
that the old man must step aside from the trail and go down the
embankment. The boy followed, going backward, still holding
the bow taut and ready. They waited till a crashing among the
bushes from the opposite side of the embankment told them the
bear had gone on. The boy grinned as he led back to the trail.
“A big un, Granser,” he chuckled.
The old man shook his head.
“They get thicker every day,” he complained in a thin,
undependable falsetto. “Who’d have thought I’d live to see the
time when a man would be afraid of his life on the way to the
Cliff House. When I was a boy, Edwin, men and women and
little babies used to come out here from San Francisco by tens
of thousands on a nice day. And there weren’t any bears then.
No, sir. They used to pay money to look at them in cages, they
were that rare.”
“What is money, Granser?”
Before the old man could answer, the boy recollected and
triumphantly shoved his hand into a pouch under his bear-skin
and pulled forth a battered and tarnished silver dollar. The old
man’s eyes glistened, as he held the coin close to them.
“I can’t see,” he muttered. “You look and see if you can
make out the date, Edwin.”
The boy laughed.
“You’re a great Granser,” he cried delightedly, “always
making believe them little marks mean something.”
An old man and a boy travelled along this runway. They
moved slowly, for the old man was very old, his movements
tremulous, and he leaned heavily upon his staff. A rude skull-
cap of goat-skin protected his head from the sun. From beneath
this fell a scant fringe of stained and dirty-white hair. A visor,
ingeniously made from a large leaf, shielded his eyes, and from
under this he peered at the way of his feet on the trail. His
beard, which should have been snow-white but which showed
the same weather-wear and camp-stain as his hair, fell nearly to
his waist in a great tangled mass. About his chest and shoulders
hung a single, mangy garment of goat-skin. His arms and legs,
withered and skinny, betokened extreme age, as well as did
their sunburn and scars and scratches betoken long years of
exposure to the elements.
The boy, who led the way, checking the eagerness of his
muscles to the slow progress of the elder, likewise wore a
single garment—a ragged-edged piece of bear-skin, with a hole
in the middle through which he had thrust his head. He could
not have been more than twelve years old. Tucked coquettishly
over one ear was the freshly severed tail of a pig. In one hand
he carried a medium-sized bow and an arrow.
On his back was a quiverful of arrows. From a sheath
hanging about his neck on a thong, projected the battered
handle of a hunting knife. He was as brown as a berry, and
walked softly, with almost a catlike tread. In marked contrast
with his sunburned skin were his eyes—blue, deep blue, but
keen and sharp as a pair of gimlets. They seemed to bore into
aft about him in a way that was habitual. As he went along he
smelled things, as well, his distended, quivering nostrils
carrying to his brain an endless series of messages from the
outside world. Also, his hearing was acute, and had been so
trained that it operated automatically. Without conscious effort,
he heard all the slight sounds in the apparent quiet—heard, and
differentiated, and classified these sounds—whether they were
of the wind rustling the leaves, of the humming of bees and
gnats, of the distant rumble of the sea that drifted to him only
in lulls, or of the gopher, just under his foot, shoving a
pouchful of earth into the entrance of his hole.
Suddenly he became alertly tense. Sound, sight, and odor
had given him a simultaneous warning. His hand went back to
the old man, touching him, and the pair stood still. Ahead, at
one side of the top of the embankment, arose a crackling sound,
and the boy’s gaze was fixed on the tops of the agitated
bushes. Then a large bear, a grizzly, crashed into view, and
likewise stopped abruptly, at sight of the humans. He did not
like them, and growled querulously. Slowly the boy fitted the
arrow to the bow, and slowly he pulled the bowstring taut. But
he never removed his eyes from the bear.
The old man peered from under his green leaf at the danger,
and stood as quietly as the boy. For a few seconds this mutual
scrutinizing went on; then, the bear betraying a growing
irritability, the boy, with a movement of his head, indicated
that the old man must step aside from the trail and go down the
embankment. The boy followed, going backward, still holding
the bow taut and ready. They waited till a crashing among the
bushes from the opposite side of the embankment told them the
bear had gone on. The boy grinned as he led back to the trail.
“A big un, Granser,” he chuckled.
The old man shook his head.
“They get thicker every day,” he complained in a thin,
undependable falsetto. “Who’d have thought I’d live to see the
time when a man would be afraid of his life on the way to the
Cliff House. When I was a boy, Edwin, men and women and
little babies used to come out here from San Francisco by tens
of thousands on a nice day. And there weren’t any bears then.
No, sir. They used to pay money to look at them in cages, they
were that rare.”
“What is money, Granser?”
Before the old man could answer, the boy recollected and
triumphantly shoved his hand into a pouch under his bear-skin
and pulled forth a battered and tarnished silver dollar. The old
man’s eyes glistened, as he held the coin close to them.
“I can’t see,” he muttered. “You look and see if you can
make out the date, Edwin.”
The boy laughed.
“You’re a great Granser,” he cried delightedly, “always
making believe them little marks mean something.”