A LIBATION TO THE TOTEM.
Mr. Dacre rose to his feet and began scrambling forward over the rough
ice. Slipping and bumping, he pushed toward the stricken bull, with
the two boys close behind him.
"He looks ready for a fight," whispered Tom.
"He sure does. Wow! Look at those tusks! I'd hate to have them bite
into me," rejoined his brother.
"Halt!" cried out Mr. Dacre suddenly.
Before them was the roaring bull. Behind him were grouped his
companions. They appeared to be unsettled whether to fly or give
battle. Apparently they were waiting to see what action their leader
would take.
The boys came to a standstill. As they did so, Mr. Dacre raised his
rifle for a second shot. But as he was about to shoot something
jammed in the repeating mechanism of his weapon. At the same time,
with a roar of rage, the wounded bull threw himself forward on his
awkward flippers.
"They're going to attack us!" called Tom. "Why don't you fire?"
"I can't. Something's gone wrong with the magazine of my rifle!"
explained his uncle. "You boys run for the boat. These fellows are
ugly customers when they get roused."
But Tom's automatic revolver was out of his pocket in a jiffy. He
leveled it and then pulled the trigger. There was a spiteful crack as
the weapon began shooting lead. The big walrus sank to the surface of
the floe with an earpiercing squeal, but wounded as he was, he turned
and managed to propel himself along over the ice on his clumsy
flippers.
"After him. He's the prize of the herd!" cried Mr. Dacre.
As their leader had turned tail, the others had swung round. Now their
great bulks were in full retreat across the ice. The boys ran forward
while Mr. Dacre struggled to get his rifle into working order once
more.
Tom swiftly reloaded and threw up his automatic. But as he ran his eye
along the barrel he dropped the weapon with a gasp of alarm.
At the landing place to which he had been directed was Sandy, standing
erect in the boat. Toward him, down the valley leading to the break in
the ice, wallowed the retreating walrus herd. The boy was directly in
their path.
"Look out! Look out!" screamed Tom, but Sandy, if he heard him, paid
no attention.
Tom saw the Scotch lad pick up an oar and stand brandishing it as the
herd, in full retreat and snorting alarmedly, bore down upon him.
Behind them lumbered the great creature that carried the bullets of
Mr. Dacre and Tom in his gigantic carcass.
Bloodstains showed that the monster had been severely wounded, but Tom
did not dare risk another shot at it. Right in line of fire with it
was Sandy's upstanding form.
"Gracious, they'll charge right down on him and maybe stave the boat!"
cried Tom, almost sick with apprehension.
But Sandy appeared quite unaware of his danger. With uplifted oar he
awaited the oncoming of the vanguard of the retreating herd. But it
now appeared that they did not intend to attack the boat.
With noisy splashes they flopped into the water all about it, while
Sandy, in a frenzy of excitement, waved his extemporized weapon and
yelled at the top of his voice.
"Let 'em all come! Hooray!" he shouted, and whacked one of the animals
between the eyes as it plunged below.
He actually appeared delighted at the novel combat.
"Whoop! Overboard with ye!" he shouted shrilly, "get along now"; and
down would come the oar with a resounding thwack!
Mr. Dacre and Jack came running up. The former had got his rifle under
control again.
"The boy's gone crazy!" he cried. "If he doesn't look out, one of
those creatures will turn on him and then there'll be trouble."
"Look! Look!" broke in Jack suddenly.
The wounded bull had reached the water's edge. He raised his head and
snorted as he glared with angry eyes at the upstanding boy. Then, with
a snort, he lunged downward into the water out of sight.
"It's gone! The prize one's gone!" shouted Jack.
"What a shame," echoed Tom, and then the next instant, "No, see there!
He's coming up again."
Sure enough, the next moment a bulky, hideous head appeared above the
water close to the boat. The animal was gnashing his teeth as if
determined to wreak vengeance on one at least of the party that had
attacked him and his companions.
"Hoots!" yelled Sandy. "Take that, you old oomeroon!"
He brought down his oar on the walrus, but the creature caught the
blade in his tusks and split it with a rending sound as if it had been
merely matchwood.
"Look out for him!" shouted Mr. Dacre as, having accomplished this
destruction, the monster dived once again. "He hasn't gone yet. Look
behind you!"
But although Sandy turned quickly, he was not swift enough. The great
sea monster had only dived a few feet. Now he came up like a battering
ram. He drove his big, fleshy nose right against the boat's side. Had
the craft not been of the stoutest construction, it must have been
stove in.
As it was, caught unawares, the shock threw Sandy from his feet. He
made an ineffectual effort to save himself, but the next instant,
while his friends set up a shout of dismay, he toppled overboard into
the cold water which was now alive with bobbing black heads.
Directly they had recovered from their first shock at the accident,
the boys, followed by Mr. Dacre, set off faster than ever over the
rough ice. As they ran they shouted encouragement to their chum.
Sandy's head could be seen in the water. He was striking out for the
side of the boat. But behind him came the blunt head of the big
walrus. The others appeared to be taking no notice, leaving the task
of demolishing the boat and Sandy to the wounded animal.
"Good boy, Sandy! Strike out! You'll make it!" roared Tom, all
a-quiver with apprehension.
"Swim for your life, my boy!" shouted Mr. Dacre. "Make the boat and
you'll be all right. I'll attend to the walrus."
Sandy was a good swimmer and he struck out valiantly. But the monster
head, with its huge gleaming tusks, was terribly close behind him as
he made his way through the water.
Mr. Dacre raised his rifle. He was going to try a desperate shot. The
head of the walrus, huge though it was, was moving too swiftly to
offer a good target, and yet it was the only chance to save Sandy.
Steadying his aim with an effort, Mr. Dacre drew a careful bead on the
creature, aiming for a spot between the eyes.
Between his sights appeared the oily head, the bristling whiskers and
the fierce tusks of the creature. He pulled the trigger. In the churn
of the water and the wave of spray that succeeded the sharp report, it
could be seen that the wounded walrus had been struck again and had
sunk from sight. But his tenacity of life had been such that they were
still by no means sure that he was dead.
"Get into the boat! The boat!" called Mr. Dacre as he saw the
blood-stained swirl of waters where the walrus had last been seen.
Sandy was clinging to the bulwark of the craft, and after some
difficulty climbed on board. Just as he reached safety, there came a
shout from his friends.
"Behind you! Behind you!" shrieked Tom.
Sandy looked. Coming toward the boat was once more a swirl of water.
The old bull was rushing down on the boat, rearing his head aloft. His
ugly creased neck tilted back. His great tusks impended above the
boat's side ready to crush on it as a terrier seizes on a rat. But
before the ponderous jaws could close, "Spit!" came from Tom's
automatic, and dazed and finally wounded unto death, the huge bull
slipped back harmlessly into the water.
As the craft careened in the swell of the sinking body, Sandy almost
went overboard for a second time. But he managed to save himself just
as the carcass came bobbing up alongside. He seized the boat hook,
jabbing it down into the great body, and gave a yell of triumph.
"I got him," he yelled, as the others came running and stumbling
toward him. "Come on, and get your dead walrus!"
A cheer answered him. Not long after, with the shivering Sandy wrapped
in what dry clothing they could spare, the boat, with its prize in
tow, was sculled back to the ship where, as you may imagine, all hands
had a thrilling tale to tell.
Sandy was made to gulp down boiling coffee and was hustled into a
change of garments, while the others examined the body of the monster
in whose slaying it might be said that they all had had a more or less
active share. Tom felt not a little proud of his part as they gazed at
the dead bull and admired his huge proportions. Soon Sandy joined
them.
"Aweel, I'm thinking that we'll have a christening the noo," said he.
While the sailors were skinning the walrus and cutting out the four
foot tusks, Sandy snatched up some strips of blubber and vanished. In
a quarter of an hour or so he appeared with a cooking pan in his
hands. Its contents was steaming and emitted a rank and fishy odor.
"What in the world have you got there?" Tom wanted to know.
"Give you three guesses," rejoined Sandy.
"It smells like sixty," observed Jack.
"Yes; keep to leeward of us, my lad," put in the captain.
"Well, what is it?" asked Mr. Dacre.
"Soup,--walrus soup," guessed Jack.
"If it is, I don't want any of it," declared Tom, sniffing the fishy
odor.
"Don't worry, _you_ won't get any," chortled Sandy.
"What are you going to do with it?" asked Jack.
"As I observed some time ago, we'll have a christening the noo," was
the rejoinder.
"A christening!"
"Aye! That native said that old 'Frozen Face' needed a shampoo wi'
seal oil, but I'm thinking that walrus oil will be just as good or
better."
A shout broke from the boys.
"Good for you, Sandy," cried Tom. "Come on, we'll give the old boy a
bath in it. He surely looked out well for you to-day."
While their elders looked on amusedly, the lads doused the long
suffering totem with the ill-smelling oil and danced around the aged
figure with mock solemnity, intoning what was meant to be a mystic
chant:
"_Oh, totem in our hours of ease,_
_Uncertain, coy and hard to please;_
_Now you have had your walrus bath,_
_Be nice and kind, and smile and laugh;_
_And kindly watch our destiny,_
_Northward, toward the Arctic Sea._"