It was a strange experience for all of them. There was not a sign of life to be seen. On every side there was nothing but the cold whiteness—a coldness and a whiteness that was like death itself. They walked on for more than a mile, and saw nothing but the desolate waste.
"There's something!" called Jack in a hoarse whisper, coming to a halt and pointing to a small hill of ice in the distance.
"It's a polar bear!" yelled Mark. "He's right behind the ice!"
"There are two of 'em!" cried Bill. "This is no place for me! Come on,
Tom!"
"Hold still! Let me get a shot!" pleaded the old hunter.
He could see the two animals plainly, now that his eyes had become used to the difference between their shaggy coats and the surrounding snow and ice. Andy kneeled down and took careful aim. A shot rang out, and one of the bears toppled over.
"Good shot!" cried Jack.
Once more the hunter pulled the trigger. A dull click was the only response. Andy quickly cocked the gun again, thinking it had missed fire. Again the hammer fell with only a click. The hunter quickly threw open the magazine.
"The chamber is empty!" he cried. "I have fired my last shot!"
"And there comes the bear!" yelled Mark. "He's in a fit of rage!"