“Got him,” shouted Mr. Kemp. “Give way, lads!”
“Hurrah!” yelled Jim. “Gee, won’t he make a fine skin for a trophy. Say, I wonder which of us hit him.”
“We can tell when we get him,” replied Tom. “One of us missed and hit the ice; but your rifle’s a .30-.30 and mine’s a .45 so we can tell by the bullet hole in him.”
A moment later the boat grated on the shelving ice. The boys leaped on to the berg, and Jim, being the first to land, rushed up the rough hummocky ice towards where the bear had fallen.
As he reached the spot where the bear had stood, he uttered a terrified yell, leaped back, slipped on the ice and came rolling and tumbling down the slope towards Tom. Rearing gigantic at the summit of the ridge was the bear, his lips drawn back over his huge white teeth, blood dribbling from his mouth, his long neck stretched out, and his wicked-looking head swaying from side to side.
Instantly Tom threw his rifle to his shoulder and took hasty aim at the bear’s breast.
“Hey, look out!” yelled Mr. Kemp. “Don’t——”
But his warning was too late. The roar of the rifle cut his words short. There was a stunning, rending, thunderous crash, the solid ice reeled and tossed like the deck of a ship in a heavy sea, and the boys and Mr. Kemp staggered drunkenly and fell sprawling.
“Wha—what happened?” cried Jim picking himself up with a dazed expression on his face.