The first impulse of the terror-stricken lads was to get as far away as possible. But Sparwick’s shrill cries for help checked them. The panicky feeling fled, and they regained their courage and self-possession.
“Hold on!” cried Jerry. “We can’t leave the fellow to such a fate, even if he is a rascal.”
“That’s so,” replied Hamp. “Strike a match, quick!”
Jerry already had the metal box out of his pocket, and the words were barely spoken when the tiny flame of a match pierced the darkness.
Jerry spied the candle as quickly. He grabbed it, and lit the wick. Then the brighter light showed the boys a startling picture.
Ten feet distant stood the bear, still erect on his hind legs. He had his forepaws about Sparwick, and was straining him to his breast. The angry growls of the animal mingled with the shrill, pitiful cries of the man.
“Look, there’s the rifle!” exclaimed Hamp.
It lay two or three feet this side of the bear.
“I see it,” cried Jerry. “Here, take the candle.”
Then, by a swift and clever dash, he captured the weapon and retreated a few paces. He hesitated only long enough to pull back the hammer. Springing forward again, he fearlessly pressed the muzzle of the rifle against the bear’s head, and pulled the trigger.