"He's a moose!" whispered Bruce, as they crept close to the rather broad waters-hole and eyed the creature through a crack between upended ice-cakes.
"Tusks two feet and a half long! Must weigh a ton and a half!" Already
Barney felt his muscles ache from the strain.
"Well, here's for it!" He exclaimed, coiling his skin-rope. The next instant there came a loud thwack, which told that the boy's shaft had found its mark. Instantly there was a hoarse bellow and then a wild splashing in the water. Bruce was at the top of a pressure ridge, ready for action. Barney had made his shaft secure, but then there came a strain that made the veins stand out on his forehead. Suddenly the strain slackened.
"Be ready! He's coming—" Barney did not finish, for from the churning water the walrus thrust his massive head, snorting and foaming. The rifle cracked.
Silently the great creature sank, but this time the foaming water showed a fleck of red where the walrus disappeared.
"Got him!" cried Bruce triumphantly.
But this time the strain on the lance was redoubled.
"Try—try to hit a vital—vital spot," panted Barney, as the strain lessened once more. "Behind front flipper—in the eye."
Again the water foamed. Again the rifle cracked. More blood! Another plunge, and again the strain seemed redoubled.
"I—can't—hold much—longer," Barney gasped.