“I see him!” whispered Andy, after nearly a mile had been covered. “He is lying down behind yonder hummock!”
Andy was right, but before they could reach his bearship, the animal scented them and hobbled away.
“He is lame!” cried Chet. “I think we can catch him! Anyway, let us try.”
The others were willing, and away they went over the ice, which soon became comparatively smooth. Once Chet lost his footing and went flat. But he soon got up and continued after the others.
Finding he could not escape those who were pursuing him, the polar bear turned as if to attack them. Both Andy and Barwell Dawson fired at the beast, and he rolled over in a death convulsion, and was speedily put out of his misery by Chet with his hunting knife.
“See, his forefoot is gone,” said Andy, as they surrounded the game. “Looks to me as if some other animal had chewed it off.”
“If it hadn’t been for that, he would have outrun us,” answered Mr. Dawson.
They spent the remainder of the day looking for more game, and toward nightfall started for camp, dragging the bear after them.
“We’ll take him as far as possible, and then send the Esquimaux out for him with a sledge,” said the explorer.
All thought they knew the direction of the camp, but in looking for game they had become more or less turned around, and now Barwell Dawson called a halt.