Well, I do not wonder, mind you, at Bruin’s wrath. How would any one like to be wakened from sweet dreamland, and have the fiery end of a lucifer match pitched down his throat?
“Come on, Paddy,” roared Byarnie.
“Sure ain’t I coming as fast as I can?” cried poor innocent Paddy.
As the bear went floundering past, Byarnie struck at him with terrible force.
The steel point of the club entered his neck, but held there, and both Byarnie and Bruin rolled together on the ground, the former undermost, and the blood flew spattering over the snow.
Paddy was back in a moment. He had all his wits about him, and his first act was to free the seal club.
His next act was one which only a brave, merry-hearted Irishman would have thought of. He thrust the alpenstock into Bruin’s mouth as if it had been a horse’s bit, and, mounting the brute’s back, pinned him by seizing the staff close to the side of each jaw.
“I’ve got him,” he cried.
Crack went the alpenstock, and down went Paddy; but Byarnie was up, and in a second he had felled his terrible antagonist.
There lay the dead bear on his side, his tongue lolling out, his dead eyes turned to the sky, and there stood Byarnie and Paddy, both puffing.