“The wild man o’ the North himself, or my name aint Jim,” said Crofts, turning pale.
“Why, it’s Davy Butts, I do believe,” cried Sam Baker, who came on deck at that moment.
Just then the bear came tearing round the end of the hummocks in full chase.
“Hurrah! hallo! ho!” roared the men, who had crowded on deck at the first note of alarm.
Sam Baker seized a heavy ash handspike about five feet long, and was on his way to meet his comrade before the others had gained the ice. They were not slow, however. Some with muskets, some with pistols and cutlasses, and some with nothing but their fists—all followed Sam, who was now far ahead.
Baker passed Davy without a remark, and ran straight at the bear, which stopped on seeing such a big, powerful man running so furiously at him, and flourishing a bludgeon that would almost have suited the hand of a giant. But polar bears are not timid. He rose on his hind legs at once, and paid no attention whatever to the tremendous crack that Sam dealt him over the skull. The blow broke the handspike in two, and the fool-hardy seaman would soon have paid for his rashness with his life had not friendly and steady hands been near. Nothing daunted, he was about to repeat the blow with the piece of the handspike that was still in his grasp, and the bear was about to seize him with its claws, each of which were full two inches long, when the first mate and Gregory came running toward him, side by side, the first armed with a rifle, the doctor with pistols.
“Too late,” gasped Gregory.
“We must fire,” said Mansell, “and risk hitting Sam. Here, doctor, you are a good shot; take the rifle.”
The young man obeyed, dropped on one knee, and took aim, but did not fire. Sam was between him and the bear. A sudden movement changed their positions. The side of the monster came into view, and in another instant it was stretched on the ice with a bullet in his brain.