“Look out, he’s coming for you!” shouted Barwell Dawson.
Both Chet and Andy heard the words, but paid no attention. Their guns were raised, and each was aiming at the bear nearest to him. Crack! went Andy’s firearm, and the polar bear was halted by a wound in the forepaw.
Chet was not so fortunate, as his gun failed to go off. The next instant the polar bear leaped on him and bore him to the ice. As boy and beast went down, Barwell Dawson opened fire, and the bear was hit in the side, a wound that made him more savage than ever.
Although Chet was sent sprawling, he did not lose his presence of mind. As quick as a flash he rolled over, from under the very forepaws of the polar bear, and continued to roll, down a slight hill to one side.
By this time Andy and Mr. Dawson were firing again, and Olalola, coming up, used several spears with telling effect. At the increase in noise,—the Esquimau adding his yells to the cracks of the weapons,—one after another of the bears turned and commenced to run away.
“Don’t go after them!” sang out Barwell Dawson. “They may turn again, if you do. Shoot them from a distance.”
Once more he discharged his gun, and Andy did likewise. Then Chet scrambled up and used his firearm, the piece this time responding to the touch on the trigger.
Another of the bears was now killed outright, while the largest of the group was badly wounded in the hind quarters. This bear dropped behind the others and, drawing closer, Chet let him have a shot in the ear that finished him. The other beasts disappeared behind a hummock of ice, and that was the last seen of them.
“Are you hurt?” asked Andy of his chum, as soon as the excitement was over, and while all were reloading their weapons and the Esquimau was securing his spears.
“Got a scratch on the back of the neck,” answered Chet. “It’s bleeding a little, but that’s all. Say, this is a dandy haul, isn’t it?” he continued, enthusiastically.