--we thought the dog had
bitten one of its tail flippers,--and came waddling after him,
snorting, and gnashing its tusks. Guard fell back toward our shelter.

"Shoot him!" Raed exclaimed.

Kit and Donovan both fired at the monster; but, with ferocious snorts,
it kept after the dog.

"Run!" shouted Weymouth. "Out of this!" for the dog was backing right
in upon us.

We had to scurry out in a hurry to avoid being penned there. Guard,
like a fool, kept backing in that direction. By the time we had got
clear of the shelter, he had got himself backed into it; and, the
sea-horse essaying to follow him, the oar that held up the skin in
front was knocked away, and down it came, burying the dog, and
partially covering the walrus. A fearful uproar of barking, howling,
and snorting, followed. Presently Guard got out from under, and ran
yelping off, leaving his pursuer floundering about under the hide. Kit
rushed up, and thrust his bayonet into the creature's exposed side;
when with a mighty squirm it turned itself, knocking down the boat,
and sending our stone wall flying in all directions. The battle was
now fairly begun. We all closed in round the animal, thrusting at it
with our bayonets anywhere we could stab. Yet it fought ferociously,
with bellowings enough to make one's blood run chill. It seemed
marvellous how a creature so unwieldy could turn itself so rapidly.
Pain and rage made it no mean antagonist. Once Raed's musket was sent
flying out of his hands several rods; and Wade, thrusting at its head,
had his bayonet wrenched off at a single twist. We afterwards found it
bent up and broken. I think Weymouth gave it a mortal wound by firing
a bullet into its head; though Kit and I repeatedly ran our bayonets
into its sides clean up to the rings. It succumbed at last, dying
hard, with many a finishing thrust.

The gray morning light was beginning to outline the dreary shore. The
chilly rain still poured. The reader can imagine in what a plight we
were. The fire had gone out. Our skin-tent lay in a wad; and in the
midst of our beds sprawled the dead sea-horse, weltering in its blood;
while we ourselves, drenched with rain and bespattered with gore,
stood round, steaming from our warlike exertions.

"This is a pretty how-d'y'-do!" Kit exclaimed. "Look at our 'shake
downs!'--all blood and mire!"

"Well, we've got another _wood-pile_," said Donovan.

"I wish it had selected a more fitting time to make its appearance,"
R