AN UGLY CUSTOMER
Rob Carrol had good cause for his panic. Full of high hope, he hurried
along the ice between crags which shut him out of sight, for the time,
from Jack Cosgrove, who was resting himself after his hard climb. The
youth was thinking of no one and nothing else, except his friend Fred
Warburton, who had vanished so mysteriously the night before.
The signs in the icy track he was following convinced him that he was
close upon the heels of his chum, who could not have wandered much
farther in advance. His hope was tinged with the deepest anxiety, for
it was impossible to account for Fred's long absence and silence,
except upon the theory that some grievous injury had befallen him.
The searcher's nerves were strung to the highest point, and he was
pushing forward with unabated vigor, when his heart almost stood
still, as he caught a peculiar sound among the masses of ice.
"That's Fred," he concluded; "he's alive, thank God!" and then he
called to his friend:
"Fred! Fred, old fellow, where are you? Speak, I beg of you."
The words were trembling on his lips, when what seemed to be a huge
pile of snow just in advance, arose from the ice and began swinging
toward him.
Paralyzed for the moment by the amazing sight, and wondering whether
his senses were not betraying him, Rob stood motionless, as if rooted
to the spot.
But the next minute that same mass of snow assumed more definite
shape, and an unmistakable growl issued from somewhere within the
interior.
That was enough. Rob knew what it was that was sweeping down upon him
like a young avalanche. He had almost stumbled over a huge polar bear,
ravenous and fierce with hunger, and with a courage that made him
afraid of neither man nor beast.
He must have been half asleep when roused by the approach and the
voice of the lad. Opening his great eyes, he saw before him a fine
breakfast in the shape of a plump lad, and he proceeded to go for him
with a vim and eagerness that would not be denied.
It was about this time that Rob whirled on his heel and started on the
back track, with all the desperate hurry at his command. It will be
remembered that he had no gun with him, he and Jack having left the
weapons on the ice a considerable distance away. Both were without any
means of defense, unless the sheath knife which the sailor always
carried may be considered a weapon, and the only possible hope for
them was to secure their rifles before the monster secured them.
When the lad's frenzied cry broke upon Jack, he sprang from the seat
where he had been resting, and stood staring and wondering what it all
could mean. He saw the boy's cap fly from his head, and he noted his
terrified glances behind him. The next moment the polar bear plunged
into sight, and the sailor grasped the situation.
Even then he failed to do the wisest thing. Instead of realizing that
but one course could save them, and that was by dashing back to the
guns, he hastily drew his knife and awaited the coming of the brute
with a view of checking his attack upon the lad.
It was more creditable to Jack's chivalry than to his sagacity that he
should do this thing.
Even Rob, despite his extreme fright, saw the mistake his friend was
making, and called to him:
"Quick, Jack! Get the guns and shoot him!"
"I shouldn't wonder now if that was a good idea," reflected the
sailor, shoving his knife back, and whirling about to do as urged.
The situation was so critical that even his sluggish blood was
stirred, and he never moved so fast as he did for the succeeding
seconds. Indeed, it was altogether too fast, for he fell headlong with
such violence that he was partially stunned, and by the time he
regained his feet Rob was upon him.
Meanwhile the polar bear was making matters lively. He was hustling
for his breakfast, and he kept things on the jump. He was at home amid
the snow and ice, and, with little effort, got forward faster than the
fugitives possibly could; he was overhauling Rob hand over hand.
To continue his flight, even for the brief remaining distance, was to
insure his certain death. Rob saw him, and, when the ponderous beast
was almost upon him, he made a desperate leap from the icy path,
landing on his hands and knees several feet to the left, and instantly
scrambling up again.
The manoeuvre was so unexpected by the pursuer that he passed
several paces beyond before he could stop. Turning his head, with his
huge jaws so far apart that his red tongue and long white teeth
showed, he prepared to continue his pursuit of the lad who had escaped
him for the moment by such an exceedingly narrow chance.
But it so happened that Jack Cosgrove just then was also climbing to
his feet from his thumping fall, and, being but a short way from the
brute, he drew his attention to himself.
The bear's appetite was in that rugged state that he was not
particular as to whether his meal was made from a boy or full-grown
man, and, since the latter was within most convenient reach, he
shifted his design to him.
"By the great horned spoon!" muttered the sailor, quick to see how
matters had turned; "but it's Jack Cosgrove that is to have all this
fun to himself, and he's enjoying it."
The single recourse still presented itself; nothing could be done to
check the furious beast until one of the rifles was turned against
him, but it did seem for a time as if fate itself was fighting in
favor of the brute.
Jack's tumble and flurry had so mixed him up that the rifles were
forgotten, until he took several steps on his flight, when he recalled
the fatal oversight, and hastily turned to rectify it; but the
precious moments wasted made it too late. The bear was actually
between him and the weapons, and, to attempt to reach them, except by
a roundabout course, was to fling himself into the embrace of those
resistless claws.
He was too wise to attempt it. The first thing to do was to get
himself out of reach of the terror that was bearing down upon him with
the certainty of death.
"If there was only a tree that I could climb," he reflected, leaping,
tumbling, and laboring forward as best he could; "he couldn't nab me,
but I don't see any tree, and that chap's hungry enough to eat a
stewed anchor."
In the fearful hurry and panic some moments passed before Rob Carrol
comprehended the abrupt change in the plan of campaign. At the moment
he expected to feel the claw of the brute, he looked back and saw he
was pressing Jack hard. Furthermore, the latter, instead of hurrying
for the guns, was drawing away from them.
That was a bad outlook, but it suggested to the youth that the chance
had come for him to do something effective.
He lost no time in seizing the chance. He turned again in his course,
and moved around toward the spot where the weapons had been left near
at hand. Could he have been sure of a few minutes there would have
been no trouble in managing it, but events were going with such a rush
that there was not a spare second at command.
The guns being near and lower in elevation than themselves, were in
plain sight. Rob saw the barrels and the iron work gleaming in the
morning sunlight, so that he could make no mistake in locating them,
but his attention was so riveted on the prizes that he paid no heed to
his footsteps, or, rather, he paid less heed than was necessary.
He was within fifty feet, and was counting upon the quickness with
which he would end the sport of the brute when he discovered that he
was on the brink of an irregular depression in the ice. He tried
desperately to check himself or turn aside, but it was beyond his
ability and over he went.