Part 38 (1/2)

”Looks to me as if some other animal had chewed it off.”

”If it hadn't been for that, he would have outrun us,” answered Mr.

Dawson.

They spent the remainder of the day looking for more game, and toward nightfall started for camp, dragging the bear after them.

”We'll take him as far as possible, and then send the Esquimaux out for him with a sledge,” said the explorer.

All thought they knew the direction of the camp, but in looking for game they had become more or less turned around, and now Barwell Dawson called a halt.

”We may as well camp here for tonight,” he said. ”We don't want to tire ourselves out when it isn't necessary.”

Some snow was sc.r.a.ped up, and a hut constructed, and they went inside and had supper. It was a cold meal, but they were hungry, and enjoyed every mouthful. Then they fixed the snow hut a little better, and lay down to sleep.

They had been resting for about three hours, when Chet awoke with a start. A loud barking had awakened him.

”Dogs!” he murmured. ”Must be one of the Esquimaux has come for us.”

The barking had also awakened the others, and getting up, the three crawled out of the snow hut.

”They are not dogs, they are foxes!” cried Barwell Dawson.

”Yes, and look at the number!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Andy. ”Must be fifty at least!”

”Fifty?” repeated Chet. ”All of a hundred, or else I don't know how to count!”

Chet was right--there were all of a hundred foxes outside, sitting in a bunch, with their heads thrown back barking l.u.s.tily. They had followed the blood-stained trail of the polar bear, and wanted to get at the game.

”This is very unpleasant,” said the explorer, gravely. ”I didn't think we'd meet foxes so far north. They can't get much to eat up here, and they must be very hungry.”

”Do you fancy they will attack us?” questioned Andy.

”I don't know what they will do. They want the bear, that's certain.”

”If we only had a good campfire that would keep them at a distance.”

”Yes, but there is nothing here with which to build a fire.”

”Supposing we give 'em a dose of shot?” suggested Chet.

”You can try it.”

Chet had the shotgun, and taking careful aim at the pack of foxes, he fired. The flash of the firearm was followed by a wild yelp from the animals, and three leaped up, and then fell on the ice badly wounded.

The others of the pack retreated for a few minutes, then came back to their former position, barking more loudly than ever.

”They are certainly game,” said Mr. Dawson. ”Killing off a few of them don't scare the others.”

”What are we to do?” asked Chet, dubiously. He had fancied the foxes would disappear at the discharge of the shotgun--for that was what foxes usually did down in Maine.

”We'll do our best to stand them off until it grows lighter,” answered Barwell Dawson.