soon after taking our third whale, we saw our first polar bears—two of them on a narrow floe of ice. when the brig was within fifty yards of them the mate got out his rifle and began blazing away. his first shot struck one of the bears in the hind leg. the animal wheeled and snapped at the wound. the second shot stretched it out dead. the second bear was hit somewhere in the body and, plunging into the sea, it struck out on a three-mile swim for the main ice pack. it swam with head and shoulders out, cleaving the water like a high-power launch and leaving a creaming wake behind. moving so swiftly across the brig's course, it made a difficult target.

"i'm going down after that fellow," said mr. winchester.

he called a boat's crew and lowered, taking his place in the bow with his rifle, while long john sat at the tiller. he had got only a short distance from the ship when captain shorey ordered gabriel after him.

"killing that bear may be a bigger job than he thinks," he said. "lower a boat, mr. gabriel, and lend a hand. it may be needed."

in a few minutes gabriel was heading after the mate's boat. neither boat hoisted sail. with four men at the sweeps, it was as much as the boats could do to gain on the brute. if the bear was not making fifteen miles an hour, i'm no judge.

mr. winchester kept pegging away, his bullets knocking up water all around the animal. one ball struck the bear in the back. that decided the animal to change its tactics. it quit running away and turned and made directly for its enemies.

"avast rowing," sang out the mate.

the men peaked their oars, turned on the thwarts, and had their first chance to watch developments, which came thick and fast. rabid ferocity, blind fury, and deadly menace were in every line of that big white head shooting across the water toward them. the boat sat stationary on a dancing sea. the mate's rifle cracked repeatedly. the bullets peppered the sea, sending up little spurts of water all about the bear. but the beast did not notice them, never tried to dodge, never swerved aside—just kept rushing for the boat with the directness of an arrow.

it was a time of keen excitement for the men in the boat. they kept glancing with an "oh, that blücher or night would come" expression toward gabriel's boat, which was doing all that oars could do to get into the fray, big foot louis standing all the while in the bow with harpoon ready. the bobbing of his boat disconcerted the mate's aim. though he was a crack shot, as he had often proved among the okchugs, i never saw him shoot so badly. but he kept banging away, and when the bear was within fifteen or twenty yards he got home a ball in its shoulder. the beast plunged into the air, snarling and clawing at the sea, then rushed again for the boat like a white streak. it rammed into the boat bows-on, stuck one mighty paw over the gunwale, and with a snarling roar and a frothing snap of glistening fangs, leaped up and tried to climb aboard.

just at this critical instant gabriel's boat came into action with a port helm. louis drove a harpoon into the beast behind the shoulder—drove it up to the haft, so that the spear-head burst out on the other side. at the same moment the mate stuck the muzzle of his rifle almost down the bear's throat and fired. the great brute fell back into the water, clawed and plunged and roared and clashed its teeth and so, in a whirlwind of impotent fury, died.

for a moment it lay limp and still among the lapping waves, then slowly began to sink. but louis held it up with the harpoon line and the animal was towed back to the brig. it measured over seven feet in length and weighed 1,700 pounds—a powerful, gaunt old giant, every inch bone and sinew. mr. winchester retrieved the other bear from the ice floe. it was considerably smaller. the pelts were stripped off and the carcasses thrown overboard. the skins were in good condition, despite the earliness of the season. they were stretched on frames fashioned by the cooper, and tanned.

a week or so later we sighted a lone bear on an ice floe making a meal off a seal it had killed. it was late in the afternoon and one had to look twice before being able to make out its white body against the background of snow-covered ice. when the brig sailed within seventy-five yards the bear raised its head for a moment, took a squint at the vessel, didn't seem interested, and went on eating.

resting his rifle on the bulwarks and taking careful aim, mr. winchester opened fire. the pattering of the bullets on the ice seemed to puzzle the bear. as it heard the missiles sing and saw the snow spurt up, it left the seal and began walking all about the floe on an investigation. finally it reared on its hind legs to its full height. while in this upright position, a bullet struck it and turned it a sudden twisting somersault. its placid mood was instantly succeeded by one of ferocious anger. it looked toward the vessel and roared savagely. still the bullets fell about it, and now alive to its danger, it plunged into the sea and struck out for the polar pack a mile distant.

mr. winchester again lowered, with gabriel's boat to back him up. the chase was short and swift. the boats began to overhaul the bear as it approached the ice, the mate's bullets splashing all about the animal, but doing no damage. as the brute was hauling itself upon the ice, a ball crashed into its back, breaking its spine. it fell back into the water and expired in a furious flurry. a running bowline having been slipped over its neck, it was towed back to the brig.

not long afterward, while we were cruising in open water, a polar bear swam across the brig's stern. there was neither ice nor land in sight. figuring the ship's deck as the center of a circle of vision about ten miles in diameter, the bear already had swum five miles, and probably quite a bit more, and it is certain he had an equal distance to go before finding any ice on which to rest. it probably had drifted south on an ice pan and was bound back for its home on the polar pack.

the bear made too tempting a target for the mate to resist, and he brought out his rifle and, kneeling on the quarter-deck, he took steady aim and fired. his bullet struck about two feet behind the animal. he aimed again, but changed his mind and lowered his gun.

"no," he said, "that fellow's making too fine a swim. i'll let him go."

cleaving the water with a powerful stroke, the bear went streaking out of sight over the horizon. it is safe to say that before its swim ended the animal covered fifteen miles at the lowest estimate, and possibly a much greater distance.

one moonlight night a little later, while we were traveling under short sail with considerable ice about, a whale blew a short distance to windward. i was at the wheel and mr. landers was standing near me. "blow!" breathed mr. landers softly. suddenly the whale breached—we could hear it distinctly as it shot up from a narrow channel between ice floes. "there she breaches!" said mr. landers in the same low voice, with no particular concern. we thought the big creature merely was enjoying a moonlight frolic. it breached again. this time its body crashed upon a strip of ice and flopped and floundered for a moment before sliding back into the water. then it breached half a dozen times more in rapid succession. i had never seen a whale breach more than once at a time, even when wounded. mr. landers became interested. "i wonder what's the matter with that whale," he said.

to our surprise, two other black bodies began to flash up into the moonlight about the whale. every time the whale breached, they breached, too. they were of huge size, but nothing like so large as the whale.

"killers!" cried mr. landers excitedly.

then we knew the whale was not playing, but fighting for its life. it leaped above the surface to a lesser and lesser height each time. plainly it was tiring fast. when it breached the last time only its head and a small portion of its body rose into the air and both killers seemed to be hanging with a bulldog grip upon its lower jaw. what the outcome of that desperate battle was we did not see. the whale and its savage assailants moved off out of eye-shot. but for some time after we had lost sight of the whale we could hear its labored and stertoreous breathing and its heavy splashes as it attempted to breach.

killers, mr. landers told me, are themselves a species of rapacious, carnivorous whale, whose upper and lower jaws are armed with sharp, saw-like teeth. they are otherwise known as the orca gladiator, and tiger-hearted gladiators of the sea they are. the great, clumsy bowhead with no teeth with which to defend itself, whose only weapons are its flukes and its fins, is no match for them. they attack the great creature whenever they encounter it, and when it has exhausted itself in its efforts to escape, they tear open its jaws and feast upon its tongue. the killer whale never hunts alone. it pursues its titanic quarry in couples and trios, and sometimes in veritable wolf-like packs of half a dozen. there is usually no hope for the bowhead that these relentless creatures mark for their prey.