“This is something like it!” cried Chet, as they trudged along over the snow and ice. “I hope we bag about a hundred polar bears!”
“Why not make it two hundred while you are at it?” answered his chum, dryly.
The first day was a disappointment, as no game of any sort appeared in sight. But on the following morning Olalola said there were bears ahead, and they soon came upon unmistakable traces of the game.
They were going toward an icy hill, and rounding this they saw at least a dozen bears. Telling the Esquimau and the others to remain to the rear, Barwell Dawson crept up on the bears, taking Andy and Chet with him.
“Don’t fire until I give the command,” said the hunter, and both boys nodded to signify that they understood.
It was a thrilling moment for Andy and Chet, but they were used to hunting big game, so they did not get nervous. Coming up within gunshot, Mr. Dawson gave the signal, and all three fired their weapons. One bear fell dead, and another was badly wounded.
“Hurrah! that’s the way to do it!” cried Andy. “Come on, let us bag some more!”
He ran forward, and Chet and Mr. Dawson followed. The polar bears were evidently dumfounded, and did not know for the moment what to do. Some turned to run away, but others arose on their hind legs to do battle.
“Some of ’em are coming for us!” cried Chet, in alarm, and then Mr. Dawson’s rifle spoke up, and another of the big fellows was laid low. But the other bears leaped for the boys, as if to hug them to death or eat them up.