On he came, crashing through the boughs and clambering nimbly over mossy bowlders.
Fred could feel that his companion was trembling from head to foot from excitement.
“Rest over that twig, Tom,” he whispered in his ear. “You can’t get a shot if you don’t.”
The two spruces were reached. Bang! slam! went two rifles; for forgetting Solomon’s injunction, Fred pulled the trigger almost at the same instant with Tom.
“Hooray!” shouted a welcome voice in the direction from which the bear had come. “You’ve done it, boys! Wait till I come before you go near him!”
With arms and legs flying like a windmill, and ax ready, Solomon came floundering along the bear’s track.
“Dropped him, fust shot!” he called out again. “He’s dead, sure enough—look out!” For at that very moment the bear struggled to his feet and made a mad rush toward his assailants.
Fred had thrown down his rifle at Solomon’s last shout, but Tom had the presence of mind to level his reloaded piece and fire. Then he turned to run, but Bruin, making one last plunge, threw out his big paw.
Tom felt a sensation like a shovelful of red-hot coals dropped down his right boot-leg, and with a howl of pain and fright, tumbled headlong.