Johnny felt the hand on his arm tremble for an instant, then grip hard.
When the great, white bear and her cub came upon the scene on that snow-domed hill where Jarvis and Dave cowered before the tiger, the point of interest for the tiger was at once shifted to the fat and rollicking cub. Here was a juicy feast. And to the great cat, inexperienced as he must have been in the ways of the creatures of the very far north into which he had wandered, the cumbersome mother seemed a rather insignificant barrier to keep him from his feast. One spring, a set of those vicious yellow teeth, a dash away, with the ponderous mother following at a snail’s pace—that seemed easy. He carefully estimated the short distance between them.
But if these were the sensations that registered themselves on the brain cells of this tawny creature, he had reckoned wrong.
He had made just two springs when the mother bear right about faced and, nosing her cub to a position behind her, stood at bay.
Seeing this, the tiger paused. Lashing his tail and crouching for a spring, he uttered a low growl of defiance.
The bear’s answer to this was a strange sound like the hissing of a goose. She held her ground.
Then, seeing that the cat did not spring again, she wheeled about and began pushing the cub slowly before her.
“Will ’e get ’im?” whispered Jarvis.
“Don’t know,” answered Dave. “If I had a rifle, he wouldn’t. Whew! What a robe that yellow pelt would make! Just prime, too!”