It was an enormous beast, with a coat of long, silky, cream-coloured fur, which hung down from its sides, and hid the claws when its feet were spread out.
“No wonder he could stand the polar winters with a great-coat like that, eh, Steve?” cried the doctor. “Why, my lad, you must have that skin carefully dressed, and use it as an ornament for your drawing-room when you have one.”
“I?” cried the boy.
“To be sure; it was your shot that brought him down, eh, Marsham?”
“Certainly,” replied the captain; “he gave the finishing stroke.”
The conversation was getting so personal that Steve walked away to where Skene crouched in a soft, sandy place, his ears cocked up and his eyes intent upon the actions of the two Norsemen, who were working away at the skinning; and as every now and then their tugging at the tough hide gave a slight movement to the left fore leg of the bear, the dog kept jumping up, uttering a fierce growl, ruffling up the hair about his neck, and showing his teeth as if about to attack.
“Down, Skeny! down, boy!” cried Steve, as the dog made one of these demonstrations. “Let’s have a look at you. Where are you hurt?”
He knelt down by the dog, patted him, and then took hold of one of his legs; but Skene threw up his muzzle and made so piteous a cry that the leg was immediately released and laid a short distance farther away by its owner.
“Then you are hurt, old chap. Shall I fetch the doctor?”
The dog yelped.