The bear was ambling off. Perhaps he had come to the wise conclusion that
too much fish at one time was bad for a bear's digestion. And then,
again, he did not altogether like the looks of all these queer two-legged
creatures with those crooked black sticks which they kept poking out at
him.
He would not run away, because, of course, he was not really afraid; but
even a bear might be allowed to conduct a masterly retreat.
"One!" called out Max.
The three guns were leveled.
"Two!"
Then cheeks pressed the stocks and eyes glanced along the tubes, while
itching fingers began to play with waiting triggers.
"Three!"
It was almost the roar of a cannon that followed. Three guns had spoken
almost in the same breath.
"H-h-he's g-g-gone!" yelped Toby, who could see better than any of the
others, because no little puff of white powder smoke obscured his vision.
A tremendous thrashing in the water told them that the wounded bear must
have toppled over into the partly frozen pond.
"Look out for him!" cried Max.
He had ejected the used cartridge from his magazine rifle with one quick
motion. Another sent a fresh one into the firing chamber.
Steve had drawn back the second hammer of his gun, and in this fashion
then the two chums advanced straight toward the spot where they had last
seen the bear.
Bandy-legs, more cautious, kept farther off, though he, too, aimed to
reach the border of the little lake, in order to see what was going on.
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