Bang!
Raed and Corliss and Bonney had fired within twenty yards. But the bear reared, and struck with his forepaws at the darky's legs, stripping his trousers clean off the first pull. Such a howl as came from his terrified throat!
Crack!
That was a better shot. The bear turned, or set out to, but fell down in a heap, then scrambled up, but immediately tumbled over again, and lay kicking.
By this time we had all got near. The negro, scared nearly into fits, still hung on to the edge of the ice, looking as if "spread-eagled" to it.
"Come, sir," said Wade. "Better get down and put on your trousers,—what there is left of them."
The darky turned an agonized, appealing visage over his shoulder, but, seeing only friends instead of bears, let go his hold, and dropped to his feet.
"That's what you call a 'sure shot,' is it," sneered Wade,—"that one you fired at the bear? Guess you didn't hurt us much at Petersburg."
"He need to be pretty thankful that somebody fired a sure shot about the time the bear was paying his compliments to him," laughed the captain.
"Yes: who fired that last shot?" I asked of Donovan, who stood near.